


Empty Mansions

by astrangerenters



Category: Arashi (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bakery, Drama, F/M, Family Drama, Friendship, Inheritance, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 18:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3081698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerenters/pseuds/astrangerenters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Jun-kun, tell me,” Shiroyanagi Masaharu said with hope in his eyes, “how much do you know about your Aunt Michiko?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is 500% inspired by the life of American heiress Huguette Clark. I read a [biography of her](http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/05/books/empty-mansions-about-the-heiress-huguette-clark.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0) recently and found her totally fascinating. The title of this story comes from said biography because I am lacking in originality. Learn more about Huguette’s interesting life [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Huguette_Clark).

With the stack of newspapers tucked under one arm and the bakery bag in his other hand, he nodded in gratitude as Yasuda-san held the door for him. “Good morning, Sakurai-san,” the cheerful doorman said, eyeing his usual bounty of papers. “Cold today, huh?”

“Doesn’t usually get this bad until January,” he complained.

“No kidding!” Yasuda said, shutting the door, returning to his post outside.

Sho let the warm embrace of the building’s lobby take hold of him, and he stood there a few moments, catching his breath. He’d been in and out all morning, leaving his apartment at 6:30 in order to catch the Toyoko Line. It dropped him at Jiyugaoka just before 7:00, giving him just enough time to pick up the papers, get to the bakery, and make it to Michiko-san’s building by 7:30. Or, as Sho thought proudly when he checked his watch, 7:24. A new December record, especially with how slowly Shibutani-san at the newspaper stand counted out change in his gloved hands.

He headed for the elevator, adjusting the items in his arms as the doors opened and he punched in the passcode for Michiko-san’s floor. She was the second floor from the top, and Sho was one of only a handful of people to have that passcode. Some mornings, when it was too cold or too hot or he was too frustrated, he reminded himself of that fact, of that trust. Some mornings it still didn’t make much difference, but on most, it did.

The elevator chimed and let him out. Like all of the floors in the building, there were only four massive apartments on each. However, unlike all the other floors, only one apartment on this floor was occupied. The other three Michiko-san had purchased years ago in order to not have neighbors. Someday soon, Michiko-san was always hinting, she’d buy out the people above her and below her. Shihori always managed to talk her down from such plans, thankfully.

Sho fumbled with the flap of his laptop bag, digging out his keyring. Before he could put it in the lock, however, Shihori was already unlocking it, pushing it open. “You’re early,” she said, looking up at him with a bit of warning in her eyes. 

Don’t make it a habit, she was implying, or Michiko-san will start expecting her papers at 7:00.

Shihori had been Michiko-san’s live-in nurse for four years now, and Sho liked her a great deal. It took a lot, being at the old woman’s beck and call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. When Sho had first started, Michiko-san had had a rotation of three nurses - one who lived with her and the other two who switched off weekends. But it had proven to be too many people, and so now there was Shihori around the clock save for a few days off a month when one of the old weekend nurses visited twice a day.

Shihori was good-humored, patient, and despite her small size, she had no trouble getting Michiko-san in and out of bed or the bathtub, guiding her around the massive apartment on their “little strolls.” Sho sometimes wondered if Shihori wished for a different job, for more days off, for a break from Michiko-san. But then again, most people asked Sho the same things, and he couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

Dressed in her cardigan, t-shirt, and slacks, the nurse didn’t really look the part, but Michiko-san preferred it that way. Shihori grabbed the bakery bag out of Sho’s grip, heading off for the kitchen. Michiko-san relied entirely on a meal delivery service specializing in the nutritional needs of the elderly, but she insisted that Sho bring her fresh croissants every morning to go with her breakfast. It was her one “little indulgence” she allowed herself.

He followed Shihori into the kitchen. It was mostly spotless, and even though she ate only her delivered meals, which just required microwaving, Michiko-san’s kitchen could have been used to feed dozens. She had all the latest appliances, a fancy new faucet, a large oven, a “smart” refrigerator with an Internet connection that went unused. Her kitchen was just one of many things that were for show. Shihori never made herself anything that complicated.

Sho took his usual morning seat at the kitchen counter, pulling his laptop from his bag and setting down the papers. While Shihori munched on some French toast she’d made for herself (with extras for Sho), she heated up Michiko-san’s morning meal. Sho started with the _Yomiuri Shimbun_ , scanning each page for the type of news his employer liked. While Michiko-san would go on and read the papers herself with her magnifying glass, Sho jotted down notes on his laptop so he could answer Michiko-san’s questions and then search the Internet for any further discussion or developments.

“You’d be great on those current affairs programs,” Shihori was always telling him. “You could be a commentator since you read those papers every single day.”

Sho hadn’t known what to expect a little more than ten years ago when he’d been ready to graduate and looking for his first full-time position. He’d done the usual song-and-dance, going on interviews with at least a dozen companies. He hadn’t been too sure about life as a salaryman, sitting in a boring office all day selling things that meant nothing to him. Then there’d been that ad in the newspaper. He’d only managed to spot it because he’d left his Starbucks cup sitting on top of it, lifting it up to see he’d inadvertently circled the ad. It had been a sign, he supposed. A sign that his life was about to get very odd.

_“Personal assistant wanted. Looking for someone smart and organized. Unusual hours, must be loyal. Attractive young man preferred.”_

He’d applied as a joke after showing a friend the ad. “It’s probably for a porno,” his friend had teased him. “Or maybe you’ll pose nude for an artist.”

Instead he’d shown up and met Shiroyanagi Michiko, and his life had never been the same. She’d been approaching 87 then, and she’d asked him to show up and do pretty much the same thing he did every morning of every day they were together now. “Tell me what’s happening out there,” she’d told him. So he’d gone out, bought a stack of newspapers and summarized the top stories of the day for her. When she challenged him on things, asked for clarification or to repeat a name, demanded that he offer an opinion, he’d failed that first time.

“I’m sure you can get better,” she’d said, peering at him through her enormous glasses, smiling at him with her crooked teeth and smeared lipstick. “You are an attractive young man.”

She’d hired him on the spot, giving a twenty-two year old days from graduation a starting salary of 18 million yen per year.

Though Sho augmented a lot of his daily news with the Internet now, Michiko-san still preferred the newspapers. She liked staining her fingers with the ink. She liked when Sho read her the obituaries of famous people she had outlived, too. “The secret to a long life, Sho-chan, is to read. Never stop reading. I bet they stopped,” she always said with a smile. “Keep that mind of yours sharp, just like mine.”

Sho did more than just read the papers. Shiroyanagi Michiko was one of the wealthiest people in Japan, not that many people knew it. She was a recluse and had been for most of her life. When her parents died suddenly back in the 1930’s, her father’s will had been rather unusual. She and her older brother had been given equal shares of his fortune and equal shares in the family business, commercial real estate. Michiko-san, kind but almost painfully shy, had zero interest in the business and had refused to marry. She’d let her brother Daisuke buy out her interest in the company, and she’d hidden herself away, investing her money wisely for decades. 

Living alone for many years, Michiko-san had funneled all her money into her own interests. She donated millions anonymously to children’s charities and maintained a rather child-like innocence herself. Her parents died when she was twenty, and she’d spent almost eighty years now buying dolls. Commissioning new ones and buying rare ones at auction. She had doll houses built for them, clothing made for them. Very few of them actually lived with her. She had apartments and houses scattered around the country, and they were filled with them. It was Sho’s job to maintain and photograph her collection, to track her commissions, to carry out her wishes.

It had been creepy at first, being twenty-two and hired to look after some crazy old woman’s dolls, but Michiko-san wasn’t really crazy. She was just passionate about her hobby, and even if it was a little creepy, walking around one of her “doll apartments,” he was well-paid for his time. And she had more than dolls. She had fancy jewelry, works of art, sculptures, china sets, items boxed up that she never used but refused to part with. She had property all over Japan, houses she’d never even set foot in. She trusted Sho to look after them. She trusted Sho to come by every day and let her know what was happening outside. She trusted Sho to be her voice, to write the letters she dictated, to work with her lawyer and her accountant to ensure her wishes were carried out. 

Even when she frustrated him, he couldn’t imagine someone else doing his job. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her. She needed him, and Sho doubted that there was any company in Japan that “needed” him or would appreciate him in the same way.

By 8:15 he’d summarized the papers and had made a big show of circling one of the obituaries that morning. It was something Michiko-san needed to know, and Sho actually wasn’t too sure how she was going to react. The name “Shiroyanagi” in the paper was never something that interested his employer. The real estate company her father had started, that her brother had inherited, that she’d cut herself off from - it held little interest. The only time her brother’s side of the family contacted her, it was because they wanted money for the business, even though she’d washed her hands of it. “Vultures,” she called them. “All they want is my money.” She still knew all their names, all the relatives who never bothered to get to know her in return. 

Shihori cleaned up Michiko-san’s breakfast, and when Sho was given approval to enter for the day, she seemed in good spirits. She’d slowed considerably since Sho had started working for her, given that she’d just turned 97 in the last week. Her mind was still sharp as ever, but her body disagreed with her more often than not lately. She was nearly deaf in her right ear, so Sho always sat to her left. Her sight was poor, and her magnifying glass was almost always in her hand. She was in pain from arthritis, and every time her physician paid her a visit, he recommended she move to a care facility. Every time, the old woman refused.

As wealthy as she was, Michiko-san wore simple clothing. Turtleneck shirts no matter the season, seeing as she never left the house, long skirts. Shihori trimmed her hair for her, helped her put on lipstick. “I have to look nice for my young man,” she told her nurse. The only sign of her millions came in the jeweled bracelets she sometimes wore, the rings she put on her fingers. She’d had her croissants, and she was in her usual place, perched among some pillows on her overstuffed sofa. Sho took his usual place in the chair just to the left of the couch, and she smiled for him, her thin hands folded primly in her lap.

“Sho-chan, good morning.”

“Good morning, Michiko-san.”

“Today is the eighteenth of December,” she recited for him. “It’s a Thursday.”

“It is,” he nodded. They started every morning exchange this way. If she was ever wrong, it was a sign to call her physician. Michiko was proud of herself. She hardly ever faltered. No signs of dementia at all. “I’m afraid I have some sad news to report this morning. There’s been a death in your family.”

Michiko fiddled with the blanket Shihori had placed on her lap. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Money-grubbing though they could be, Michiko didn’t hate them. Sho arranged the newspapers on the couch for her. While Michiko-san picked up her magnifying glass, gripping it tightly, Sho gestured to the obituary that dominated the section that day. 

“Shiroyanagi Daisuke, the son of your great-nephew Masaharu and his wife. The heir to Shiroyanagi Management.”

Michiko-san looked deeply sad, shaking her head. Her fingers drifted across the newsprint, and she bowed her head. “So young.”

“Yes, it says here he was born in 1981.” Sho held his tongue about the other details. The man had been unmarried, a playboy. He’d been off in Switzerland pissing his family’s money down the drain, had died by falling off a balcony drunk. It was an embarrassment, one final embarrassment in a long line of them. Now he was dead, and the entire company was in jeopardy. At least that was what all the papers were implying.

“And Masaharu has no other children,” Michiko said, shutting her eyes. “This is terrible for him, simply terrible.”

“What would you like to do?” he asked.

Her fingers lingered on the photograph of Shiroyanagi Daisuke, dead at 33, named for Michiko’s own brother. “Flowers,” she decided. “Sho-chan, there must be so many flowers for this poor boy.”

—

She’d been fumbling with the envelope of condolence money the entire car ride over, turning it over in her hands, tapping it against her leg, and Jun was very close to yanking it away. But his older sister had always been a stubborn person, and he wasn’t in the mood to start a fight. It made more sense for Arisa to carry the thing anyway, for Arisa to hand it over. She actually wanted to be here.

There were so many cars in the lot that Jun swore under his breath, trying to be patient as he was slowly directed across the gravel to a spot near the end of a row. He parked, waiting patiently as Arisa poked and prodded her hair, adjusting bobby pins. “You look fine,” he said with a sigh as she examined herself in the tiny mirror from her handbag. “It’s a wake, you know.”

She shot him a dirty look before opening the car door and slamming it after her. He hid a smile, biting his lower lip. The last thing anyone needed to see him do was smile right now. It was an elaborate set-up, as he’d expected. They were yards away and could already smell the flowers. Because it had been unexpected, because Daisuke had been so young, everyone had seemingly competed to show the most shock, the deepest sympathies through their floral arrangements.

The most sucking up.

It irritated Jun quite a bit, but he stayed calm, walking at his sister’s side as they approached the funeral parlor. “Do you think they’ll be angry that Dad’s not here?” she’d been asking him ever since they’d found out, ever since she’d begged Jun to attend the wake with her.

“Hell would freeze over before Dad would show up here, and they know it,” had been Jun’s reply.

Their father, Matsumoto Hiroki, was not a fan of his mother’s family. Shiroyanagi Atsuko had been born to wealth and privilege, the daughter of real estate mogul Shiroyanagi Daisuke. But then she’d refused an arranged marriage and had married “beneath” herself, marrying for love, marrying Matsumoto Yuji, a simple chicken farmer and Jun’s grandfather. When Atsuko made her choice she’d been cut off from the Shiroyanagi name, the Shiroyanagi wealth. While Atsuko’s father and her brother lived in mansions, Atsuko and Yuji struggled for years to survive. Jun’s father had never forgiven the Shiroyanagi family for how they’d treated his mother.

Jun knew their father was angry he and Arisa had decided to attend the wake at all. Daisuke, their second cousin, had been named for his great-grandfather. He’d gone to the best schools, to the best university. He’d traveled the world, had everything he could have wanted. Though they had the same great-grandfather, Daisuke’s life was vastly different from Jun and Arisa’s. They hadn’t grown up poor, as their father had, but theirs was just an average family. An average house, average schools. Arisa had gone to a decent college, Jun to a second-rate culinary school because he couldn’t afford the top tier.

When Jun was younger, his sister had been obsessed with the family that was so closely related but yet so far from them. Arisa would tack up stock market tables on the bulletin board in her small bedroom, would track the Shiroyanagi Management stock (even if she didn’t really know what the hell she was looking at). She followed society mentions of their father’s cousin Masaharu, his son Daisuke who was born the same year she was. She knew about their glamorous vacations, about the yacht they owned. She had always been so jealous.

“You’ll never get their money,” their father would yell at her. “They want nothing to do with us, and that’s just fine with me.”

It would only spur her on. Jun had managed to remain mostly indifferent all these years. Not interested in being stuck between his sister’s envy and his father’s hatred, the Shiroyanagi family meant little to Matsumoto Jun. They were a talking point, a pick-up line. “You’ll never guess who I’m related to.”

And now Daisuke had fallen off a balcony in Switzerland, and Jun was here to pray for his soul. 

His sister fussed with his tie before they entered the temple. He was 31 years old, and she’d never stopped treating him like her underling. He finally had to shove her hand away before someone saw them. Jun knew that she’d tried to get her husband to come with her first, but Keisuke, the damn traitor, had suggested it would be more appropriate if brother and sister attended together instead.

They entered the funeral parlor, the best money could buy, and Jun could just imagine the fireworks exploding in Arisa’s head. Here she was at last, able to bask in greatness. There were dozens of people milling about, staff accepting the envelopes of condolence money, asking them to sign registers of their attendance. High society, everywhere. The kind of people who were like the Shiroyanagis, not the Matsumotos. Even in basic, muted funeral black Jun could smell the money on these people just as much as the incense in the halls.

He nudged Arisa forward, and as Jun had irritatingly anticipated, she introduced them as family. Cousins, which was true, but they’d never met Daisuke once. A staff member took down their names and accepted their business cards, took their pathetic financial offering, and escorted them out of the packed lobby and into the main room. He’d never seen such a large wake in his entire life. Row after row of chairs, a park’s worth of flowers at the front, and a photograph of a smiling, handsome Shiroyanagi Daisuke that looked more like a cover for a men’s style magazine than a funeral portrait.

The staff member brought them closer and closer to the front of the room, closer and closer to Daisuke, and Jun’s unease grew. He had no qualms about expressing sympathy - much as his cousin hadn’t seemed like a stellar person, it was still sad that he’d passed away so young. But he didn’t need to be up at the front with the immediate family.

They were seated only two rows back from Daisuke’s parents as they waited for everything to begin. He looked around nervously. While Arisa sat proudly, back straight and face serene in a place she thought they deserved to be, Jun could see the confusion grow on other faces. Who the hell are these peasants, Jun imagined them saying and he had to stifle yet another smile of amusement.

Finally, mercifully, everyone else was shown in and the priest moved to kneel before Daisuke’s coffin, beginning his chant. Jun went through the motions, walking behind his sister and following the other Shiroyanagi relatives to the altar. After offering the incense, he met eyes with Shiroyanagi Daisuke for the first time, if only with his portrait. He knew the guy was a scumbag, a spoiled brat who never worked hard for anything in his life. For 31 years, Jun’s father had told him so. “This is what money does,” Matsumoto Hiroki said. “This is what it does when you let it rule you.”

Jun pursed his lips and bowed to the portrait respectfully before following Arisa. Shiroyanagi Masaharu and his wife Michiru were waiting. He let his sister introduce them. “Of course,” Michiru said with a kind, genuine smile. She looked so tired, Jun wanted to apologize for taking up her time. “Of course, Hiroki-san’s children. Thank you for coming. It’s so kind of you.”

“If there’s anything we can do,” Arisa said quietly, “anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Jun would have to save his eye roll of the century until they got back to the car. He could just imagine Arisa standing in front of the mirror at home, practicing that line until Keisuke made gagging noises. Instead Jun bowed to them, to the people his father had resented his entire life.

When Masaharu held out his hand, Jun almost didn’t know what to do. He was a short man, balding with glasses. He and Jun’s father had the same eyes, and it was unnerving. First cousins, vastly different lives. “Jun-kun,” Masaharu said, clasping Jun’s hand in his own. He could hear whispers, more confusion from the other attendees. Their murmurs didn’t seem to reach Shiroyanagi Masaharu. His grip was tight, almost desperate. “Jun-kun, thank you.”

They bowed once more, and Masaharu let him go. 

When they got in the car, Arisa was angry. Jun started the car, eyeing her in annoyance. “What, you’re mad he didn’t shake your hand?”

She crossed her arms and actually snorted, a grown woman with a husband and child. Sometimes Jun thought Arisa’s five year old son was more mature than she was. “I may as well have stayed home.”

He sighed, backing up the car and heading out of the lot. He would never understand her, this woman who shared the same DNA as him. “You thought they were going to hand out Tiffany jewelry and country club memberships as the thank you gifts for all the mourners?”

“What an awful thing to say! He was our cousin!”

“He was a _stranger_ ,” Jun shot back, loosening his tie when they stopped for a red light. “A complete stranger.”

—

Sho always felt a bit awkward attending the client Christmas party at Kimura, Kato, Inagaki & Partners. Everyone around him, lawyer and client alike, was wealthy, the type who drove sports cars and flew first class. Sho was well-paid for his job, of course, but not like this. Every year since he’d started working for Michiko-san, and most likely every year before that, an invite to the client Christmas party had arrived for her. “Sho-chan, you should go. I’m sure they serve wonderful food there.”

Well, they did actually, and if there was one thing Sho appreciated, it was wonderful food. Michiko-san always sent a letter declining the invitation and insisting that Sho be issued one instead, as he would be attending in her place. The client Christmas party was a celebration of a year’s success, although Sho always sensed eyes on him if he reached for one too many shrimp hors d’oeuvres.

Because if one client caused headaches for Kimura, Kato, Inagaki & Partners, it was Shiroyanagi Michiko. The firm had served as her legal representation from day one in the 1930’s when she’d sold her shares of Shiroyanagi Management to her brother. Her lawyer had the unenviable job of negotiating real estate deals when Michiko-san wanted to buy a new house she wouldn’t live in or if she planned to buy more of her dolls in auctions around the world. 

She was one of the wealthiest clients on their payroll, and that included some entire companies, but for decades, she had caused them headaches. And the latest irritation was Michiko-san’s lack of interest in signing a will. “I feel great,” Michiko-san would say any time one of Kato’s polite, but annoyed letters arrived. “Does that boy want me dead so he can make a profit off it? Lawyers get money for handling that, you know.”

Kato Shigeaki was actually the fourth lawyer from Kimura, Kato, Inagaki & Partners to be in charge of the Shiroyanagi Michiko client file. His grandfather, the Kato in the firm’s name, had been Michiko’s trusted ally for years before he retired. After a few years’ limbo, Michiko being passed around the partners, Kato’s grandson had been hired at the firm right out of law school. “That one, that one, Sho-chan. I always trusted Kato-san! I want him to manage my affairs!”

“I’m not the same person,” Kato had said by way of introduction to Sho the first time three years ago. “She does know that, right?” 

Kato had been a little arrogant for someone starting at the bottom of the totem pole in such a prestigious firm, and he’d leapt into Michiko’s life and her very complex files with something closer to contempt than enthusiasm. The rapport his grandfather and Michiko had shared often gave him the courage to say things Sho thought someone in their mid-twenties shouldn’t say to an elder. From the very start, he opted for “Michiko-san” over “Shiroyanagi-san,” and he got a little testy whenever a new work contract made it to his desk, going so far as to call some of Michiko’s plans “foolish.”

That evening Kato was nearly up Sho’s ass, coming by to nag about Michiko every five minutes when he ought to have been enjoying the shrimp. Sho tried to be patient as Kato, pencil by his ear and manila file folder in hand, accosted him by the bar. Sho sipped quietly from his champagne flute while Kato found something else to point out.

“She’s got this thing coming from Germany and is paying extra for them to ship it to the Nagano house? Why? Why can’t it just be shipped to her here?”

Sho took another sip, trying to stay as in control as he could despite having enjoyed quite a bit of champagne already. He was still here as Michiko’s representative. “It’s a model of Neuschwanstein.”

“Neusch-what?”

“Neuschwanstein Castle. In Bavaria. It’s a famous castle in the Alps I think? So she wants it in the Nagano house because of the mountain setting.”

“It’s a dollhouse,” Kato complained, staring Sho down. “Does it matter? She’s paying twice as much to ship it there, and the craftsman in Germany needs confirmation before the end of the year to close his books out. Ninomiya’s breathing down my neck so he can mail out the final check, but I have to finalize the work contract and…”

“I have to take pictures of it for her once it arrives. It’ll be in the west wing of the house, and you can see Mount Kirigamine from the windows there.” He set the champagne flute down, gesturing a little wildly with his hands. He needed to stop drinking so much at these things, but free was free. “So I have to make sure she can see how it looks with the mountains in the background.”

“She wants her German castle dollhouse in the Nagano house because of the Japanese mountains?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t just Photoshop it?”

Sho smiled, seeing Kato’s face darken in his usual rage. “Send it to the Nagano house. She doesn’t care if it costs more.”

Kato stomped off, wondering what he’d done in his life to deserve such an oddball client. At least he wasn’t the one who’d have to drive out to Nagano, arrange the specific dolls Michiko-san requested in various poses within the massive dollhouse, and then snap photos until the memory card of his camera was pretty much full. Michiko rarely saw a completed dollhouse masterpiece in person any longer. It always fell to Sho to get her the photographs. Her apartment was full of bookshelves stacked with photo albums, bursting with pictures Sho had taken of all her possessions. 

The Neuschwanstein was just the latest in a long line of castles Michiko-san had commissioned. There were dolls in proper German Alpine attire that Sho would have to pose once it arrived. That summer the replica of Buckingham Palace had arrived, and it lived quietly in Michiko’s Nishi-Azabu apartment with its companion dolls Queen Elizabeth, Prince Charles, Prince William, Duchess Kate, and even the new little Prince George doll. Michiko-san had a thing for royalty.

Sho switched to water, knowing he was at risk of overstaying his welcome at the party. Michiko-san had already been speaking just the other day about commissioning a set of new clothes for the Alpine dolls from her usual seamstress in Paris. Her dolls wore fancier clothes than most human beings. Kato always had to go to a lot more trouble with the foreign work contracts, getting things translated, and running drafts by Michiko over and over until she was certain things were correct. Sho decided that he’d hold back about the clothes at least until the New Year.

He was halfway to the elevator when Kato caught him one more time, reaching for his sleeve. He might have been the only person in Tokyo still working during a holiday party. “Sho-san, about the will…”

How many times had they had this conversation in the last year alone? Sho had lost count. Just the other month Michiko had finally consented to signing a temporary document, a placeholder will that would stand until she felt like doing a proper one. The simple document, no more than a page including the signatures of Michiko and her witnesses - Kato, Sho, and Shihori - had gone through eighty-six revisions and all it said was that all of her money would go to her next of kin by default if a formal will wasn’t signed before her death.

“She’s not ready,” Sho said weakly, knowing just as well as Kato that it was incredibly foolish on Michiko-san’s part. A 97 year old woman without a proper will? With the money and assets she had? There was nothing noted about where she actually wanted her money to go. There was nothing noted about what would happen if she was hospitalized, if she was unconscious, if the inevitable “pull the plug” conversation came up. Sho, of course, knew the answers to these questions, and Shihori did too. But again and again, Michiko refused to put it in writing. She refused to acknowledge a world in which she wasn’t still alive.

“It’s dangerous, you know,” Kato reminded him. “Every day could be her last.”

Sho shivered, tugging his scarf around him tighter. “Don’t be so morbid, Kato. It’s Christmas, lighten up.”

“Unless she’s immortal and hasn’t told us, she needs to do this. My bosses are bugging me constantly about this! It’s insane!”

Sho jabbed the down button for the elevator, sighing heavily. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Maybe wear one of those white horror masks from the Scream movies, give her a shock. Then when she stops feeling like her heart’s going to explode, you can take off the mask and get talking about it.”

Sho laughed. “You’re awful.”

At that, Kato simply nodded, a wicked glint in his eyes. “I’m a lawyer. I’m paid to be.”

—

Jun returned from a delivery to find a note tacked to the refrigerator in the rear of the shop.

_Someone from the bank called, 1:37 PM._

He frowned, looking through the glass to see that his partner was with a customer. He hung back, annoyed, busying himself with cleaning out some of the mixers until Ohno came up in his usual quiet way, poking him in the shoulder.

“Did you see my note?” Ohno asked innocently enough, gesturing to the fridge.

Jun turned off the water, sighing. “Someone from the bank called? That’s your message?”

“Yes?”

“Does ‘someone from the bank’ have a name so we call the right person back?”

At this Ohno realized his error, his guilt manifesting in the way he shoved his hands in his apron pockets and let out a tiny huff. This was why Jun mostly handled the business side of things. Ohno Satoshi could make a cake or the perfect loaf of bread in his sleep, but when it came to some common sense things, he was a lost cause. “So and so who liked the Black Forest cake wanted another one,” Jun would find tacked to the fridge on a random Wednesday. No name, no estimated time for when it should be ready. But then there’d be a sketch tacked up right beside it, a gorgeous colored pencil sketch of the newest cupcake they ought to consider selling the following month. A sketch that could hang in an art museum and with frosting that Ohno would be able to replicate with his piping bag exactly.

They’d met in culinary school, and after a few years apprenticing here and there, they’d caught up with each other again and decided to go into business together, taking over a small shop from a retiring baker Ohno had worked for. Because of the old man’s legacy, it hadn’t felt right to change the name. And so Mr. Bake, their shop in Ikebukuro, did decent business and had great reviews online. At first the bakery’s history brought people in the door. Jun and Ohno’s treats kept them coming back. Unfortunately, a new issue had emerged as of late, and Jun was stressed more and more each day. Especially whenever Ohno tried to be reassuring and say “it’ll all blow over.” Things like this didn’t “blow over.”

Some high-end shops had started opening in the neighborhood, and small businesses like Mr. Bake were at risk of being forced out. Some of the other shop owners on the street - the dry cleaners across the way, the izakaya three doors down - were planning to shutter their doors come March. Rent was probably going to rise, more fancy stores would move in, and that would be a problem. The last thing Jun wanted to do was sacrifice quality, so he’d been back and forth with their bank the last few weeks, just putting out feelers. Potential places they could relocate to in the event the neighborhood got too expensive for them. Ohno, more concerned with yeast and flour than with what they cost, was doubtful anything would actually change for them. 

“…I’ll finish cleaning that,” Ohno said meekly, pushing Jun out of the way in lieu of apologizing.

Jun headed to the front of the shop, perusing what they had left for the day. Their daily specials were usually gone by 8:30, popular with commuters. Housewives came by for fresh bread and maybe a treat or two during the morning. Then there’d be the girls from the junior high and high school in the neighborhood, clearing out most of the rest of the sweets in the afternoon. Mr. Bake was closed by 6:00, giving them time to work on any special orders or go home to get a good night’s rest to start fresh come morning. The bank would be closed by the time they shut down for the day, so he’d have to try and go tomorrow and figure out who Ohno had spoken to.

It was just after 5:00 when there was an unexpected visitor. Jun looked up from marking clearance prices on the morning’s bread when the shop door opened, and Shiroyanagi Masaharu walked in. He was accompanied by another man, middle-aged and rather unfriendly, who stayed by the door almost like a bodyguard. Jun couldn’t help but stand up a little straighter behind the counter, offering his usual “Welcome to Mr. Bake” greeting. Ohno was in back, cleaning with his earbuds in.

Shiroyanagi took in the shop slowly, eyeing the case, fingerprinting the glass as he examined what was left. Finally he straightened up, gave Jun a warm smile. “Jun-kun, what would you recommend?”

He wasn’t even sure how to address the man. This was only the second time in Jun’s life they were meeting. It had been a week since the wake, and Jun had mostly moved on from the death of his second cousin. Arisa, of course, hadn’t, but luckily she seemed to be complaining mostly to their mother about it, had given up on Jun, who’d had enough of hearing about her weird feelings about their relatives.

Jun opted not to address him at all, instead leaning over and gesturing to the case. “If you have a sweet tooth, our strawberry shortcake is always a top seller. We use only the highest quality ingredients, organic strawberries…”

“I’m afraid I’m diabetic,” Shiroyanagi said, looking embarrassed. “How about your breads here? Do you have a baguette?”

“We do. All our bread is made fresh in store each morning.” He directed the man to the baskets he’d just marked down. “Everything after 5:00 is 75% off.” Not that someone with his money needed to be bargain hunting. Jun shut his mouth before he said something stupid. Shiroyanagi waved his companion over, selected two baguettes, and the other man pulled out a wallet and paid for them. Jun rung it up, watching the way the man was sniffing the bread. It seemed almost snobby, as though he expected it to be nothing special. But if there was something Jun excelled at, it was his baguettes.

“Can we sit and talk?” Shiroyanagi asked. “Privately?”

Jun couldn’t keep the shock from showing on his face, and he clasped his hands behind his back. What on earth would Shiroyanagi Masaharu have to talk to him about? “Of…of course. Let me tell my partner, and we can speak in the back.”

He went through the swinging door, very happy for the one-way glass. Shiroyanagi didn’t have to see Jun in full-blown panic. Jun hurried across the room, yanking Ohno’s earbud out. His partner looked up at him, eyes sleepy and almost annoyed with the interruption. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone…someone came to see me,” Jun said, wringing his hands. He’d thought all this time that he didn’t care, that the Shiroyanagi side of his family was an untouchable, unreachable thing. That they were characters, not real people. But now here the insanely wealthy Masaharu was in his shop, wanting to speak to him privately. To Jun, who may as well have not existed a week earlier. He’d come in person himself rather than asking Jun to come to him, which seemed more proper given their circumstances. “Can you watch the front? I’m taking him back here.”

Ohno’s eyebrows raised the slightest bit. He was paying attention at least. “New boyfriend?” he asked, the corners of his small mouth quirking.

Jun punched him in the shoulder. It had been quite a long time since he’d had one of those, and he didn’t need any reminders. “Would you just watch the front?” 

Ohno, even though he was three years older than Jun, was usually willing to be obedient, and he strolled through the swinging door, offering a “Welcome to Mr. Bake!” to Shiroyanagi and his companion. Jun then escorted his relative into the rear of the shop, opening up the door to the small office in back where they kept their invoices, their computer, their coats. He pulled out the desk chair for Shiroyanagi and stood a bit awkwardly next to the desk.

“I’m sorry again about your son,” Jun said, inclining his head.

“Thank you, that’s kind of you to say.” Shiroyanagi’s face was fairly emotionless despite his words. Was it grief over his lost son? Or indifference because said son had been such a nuisance?. “I’m not one to drag things out, and I see that you’re a businessman, so you probably prefer to have things laid out honestly and directly, am I right?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“I came here for a specific purpose, Jun-kun. Hiroki and I aren’t close, as you well know, but I must admit that I’ve followed both you and your sister’s accomplishments for many years.” This was the first Jun was hearing about it, and he stood still as a statue, unsure where this was going. “Daisuke…Daisuke was a troubled man, and as shocking as his loss has been for my wife and me, it’s been a more incredible shock to our shareholders.”

The man took off his glasses, holding them in his hand while he looked at Jun directly. It was still so eerie how closely Masaharu resembled Jun’s own father.

“Shiroyanagi Management has always been a family-run organization, and as you know, Daisuke was our only child. The ah, the family line on my side has been rather…sparse. Not sure how much of our family tree you filled in, given Hiroki’s feelings for us, but I was my father’s only child, just as Daisuke was mine. To be blunt, I have no heir. And you, Jun-kun, you are the next male in the Shiroyanagi line.”

Jun felt his insides start to churn. “I’m…I’m not a Shiroyanagi, I’m a Matsumoto…”

“Your grandmother is a Shiroyanagi. Your father is, through her. And thus so are you.”

“My grandmother was cast out, cast aside like trash,” Jun said, leaping to defend her in a way he knew his father would. “And my father is still alive. After you, _he_ is the next male according to your definition of the Shiroyanagi line.”

“You came for Daisuke. Your father did not,” Shiroyanagi said, tapping his fingers on the desk. “You’re young, you’re experienced with running a business…”

“A…a bakery! We have a bakery. One small bakery!” Jun was unconsciously backing up, realizing it when his ass hit the doorknob hard. What was happening here? Had the man gone mad with grief?

Shiroyanagi was out of his seat in the next instant, his fingers clutching Jun’s wrist. “Do you understand what this means for you? You can be the heir to the company. I’m willing to train you, to teach you, Jun-kun. There’s nobody else!”

“I make cake!” Jun protested, trapped between a relative he barely knew and the door to his shop. “I like who I am and what I do. I’m good at it.” He tried to meet Shiroyanagi’s eyes. “Why do you need an heir? Why can’t you just change the structure, let someone else take over when you retire? Like any other company?”

“We’re a legacy. This is the family’s pride.”

This is the family’s _money_ , Jun thought, knowing that Arisa would already be halfway out the door and ready to sign on the dotted line, no matter how strange Masaharu’s suggestions were. But he wasn’t Arisa.

“I’m not interested.”

“You wouldn’t have to take over right away,” the man said, backing off. “Make your cake, I wouldn’t stop you. You take over gradually. I’m not getting any younger. And in twenty years, you turn it all over to a child of your own or you transfer everything into Yosuke’s care.”

Jun was about to decline once again, but Yosuke. Shiroyanagi knew about Yosuke. “My sister’s son…”

Masaharu smiled weakly. “Everything could go to him. Think of what he could do. He’d be set for life.”

“I’m not going to dictate my nephew’s future for him,” Jun argued. “I could never do that.” 

But if Arisa knew about this, if she found out Shiroyanagi Masaharu had come into Jun’s bakery and pretty much offered to hand his company over to him and technically to her own son in the future… 

Jun knew Keisuke didn’t make a lot of money at the factory, if only because Arisa wasn’t shy about saying so. But with Shiroyanagi money, little Yosuke could do anything. No restrictions. The best schools, the best opportunities. How could Jun take that away from his nephew? Why wouldn’t Jun want the absolute best for him?

Maybe because of what it had done to Daisuke.

“The real estate in this neighborhood is expensive,” Masaharu said, calmer than before. “But you wouldn’t have to worry about it. Shiroyanagi Management could easily buy up this entire neighborhood. Shiroyanagi Management could set the rents.”

Jun had been one big ball of nerves, going back and forth with the bank the last few weeks. The thought of Mr. Bake going strong for years and years, protected by Shiroyanagi. Saved by Shiroyanagi. It was money and power both that Masaharu was dangling before him. And Jun had been raised by a person who knew what it was like to struggle, who had raised children that had a respect for hard work. Daisuke had lived and died in a world of privilege, of meaningless spending and excess. Jun wasn’t like Daisuke.

“There’s a deadline,” Masaharu explained. “With Daisuke’s loss, the shareholders have the right to petition for a change of leadership. They will gut the business, change the name, destroy everything our family built…” He met Jun’s eyes, remembering just how little the Shiroyanagi name and legacy meant to him. “The company needs new blood, it needs to be reinvigorated. And if you help with that, Jun-kun, I’ll name you as my successor. The new fiscal year starts April 1st. If you help me, you help yourself. And Yosuke.”

“Help you?” Jun asked, suspicions raised.

“Daisuke was no leader,” Masaharu admitted. “He urged the company to make bad investments, to funnel money into the ventures of his lazy friends. The company as it stands today needs to recoup those losses. We need money.”

“You promised a good future for Yosuke. If the company’s broke, where is that future going to come from?”

“You can secure it for him! By helping to raise that money.”

“I make cake,” Jun said once more. “My skill set doesn’t expand much beyond what I make in this kitchen.”

“Jun-kun, tell me,” Shiroyanagi Masaharu said with hope in his eyes, “how much do you know about your Aunt Michiko?”


	2. Chapter 2

Kato had forwarded the letter along, apparently without reading it first. The first week of the year was busy for the firm, so he’d just bundled up whatever had come in Michiko-san’s name and sent it off for Sho to go through. Because of her desire for privacy, her home address was not made public, and all her letters and mail came through the law firm. 

Shihori stood behind him in the kitchen, hand perched on his shoulder as she read along with him. “It’s a joke, right?” Sho asked, tapping the paper. “Nobody would be so upfront about a thing like this.”

“It seems real to me,” Shihori said. “And Michiko-san prefers when people are honest.”

Sho folded it up, slipping it back in the envelope. “I don’t want to give it to her. She wants nothing to do with them.”

Shihori squeezed his shoulder before moving to put away some leftovers from the stir-fry lunch she’d made them. “Why don’t you let Michiko-san decide what she wants, hmm?”

He shoved the letter to the bottom of the pile. He’d talk through the latest editions of her work contracts first, then any expenses that would have to go out. Ninomiya, Michiko-san’s accountant, had been emailing Sho all morning asking why nobody had told him about her sudden, surprise donation of 50 million yen the other day to a children’s hospital in Thailand. Nobody had told Ninomiya, of course, because nobody had told Sho. Michiko had written the check herself after seeing some pretty young idol volunteering there on a New Year’s special. The old woman had then signed it, stuffed it in an envelope, addressed it, and dropped it in with some of Shihori’s bills. Shihori hadn’t thought the old woman was crafty enough to sneak something like that by her and out the check had gone. When the hospital had tried to cash it, their bank had been forced to call Ninomiya to get the funds released.

“Fifty million! She needs to come to me with these things!” Ninomiya had emailed. “Take her checkbook away!”

Sho wasn’t sure who had the hardest job sometimes - Shihori, Kato, Ninomiya, or himself.

He spent the next two hours getting Michiko to approve the language on her next batch of commissions as well as gently chiding her for sneakily making her donation without going through the proper channels. “But they’re sick little babies!” Michiko fought back. “That little pup would have been back and forth with me for days on this, he says it gives him more work come tax time when I donate to overseas charities! Boohoo on him with his complaints! They needed that money right now!”

“That little pup” was her affectionate nickname for her accountant, Ninomiya Kazunari, who had already given eight years of his life to working with Michiko’s banks, with her stockbroker, and with Michiko herself. He liked to tell Sho that he knew how much money Michiko had down to the last yen. Every time she went behind his back, writing checks herself and not telling him, he’d “come howling like a dog” about it to Michiko. But dogs are very loyal, Michiko always said with a smile, knowing Ninomiya would send out the money anyhow after he had registered his complaints.

Once the commissions and the Thailand mess were out of the way, Sho still had the letter Kato had sent over. “You’ve received a letter from someone named Matsumoto Jun. Atsuko-san’s grandson.”

Sho definitely had not expected Michiko to smile about it, but her entire face lit up. “Hiroki’s little boy!”

“Well, not so little,” Sho said. As far as Sho knew, the grandchildren of Michiko’s niece Atsuko were in their thirties, the same generation as the recently deceased Daisuke. Then again, everyone probably seemed young to a woman of ninety-seven. “It’s a very strange letter, and I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

“Asking for money then?” Michiko asked. “Atsuko’s family has never asked for a cent. Read it to me, if he’s in trouble, I want to help.”

Sho sighed, taking the letter out and reading it.

_Dear Aunt Michiko,_

_Please forgive me for addressing you so informally as we have never met in person. My name is Matsumoto Jun, and I am a member of your family. My grandmother Atsuko is the daughter of your brother Daisuke. I am thirty-one years old, and I work as a baker here in Tokyo. As you may know, Daisuke-san’s namesake and great-grandson Daisuke recently passed away. Because of this, Shiroyanagi Management has been left without an heir and according to Daisuke’s father, Masaharu-san, the company is in dire financial straits._

_I want you to know, Aunt Michiko, that I do not wish to trick you or force you into a situation that makes you uncomfortable. So I want to use this letter to be open and honest about my intentions in contacting you and do wish that my first contact with you came under kinder auspices_

“My word, this boy is so serious!” Michiko interrupted. She gave Sho a tap on the arm. “Keep reading, keep reading.”

_that my first contact with you came under kinder auspices. Because Masaharu-san’s line has lost its last male heir, I have been approached as a potential candidate to guide the future of Shiroyanagi Management. However, I bring zero experience and zero money to such a lauded position. It was Masaharu-san’s hope that you and I might meet to discuss the future of the business and perhaps discuss how you could aid me in this endeavor_

“That means ‘give me all your money,’” Sho grumbled.

“Sho-chan!”

He cleared his throat, rolling his eyes so Michiko didn’t see.

_how you could aid me in this endeavor. As I’m sure you’ve already inferred, this aid would be entirely financial. Again, I feel it is best you know from the start about my reasons for contacting you, and I truly apologize for being so blunt and unkind. I have enclosed my business card and contact information, and I am happy to meet you anywhere, any time, should you decide to consider my request. Please keep me in your favor. Matsumoto Jun._

Sho wanted to rip the letter in half. No matter how formal or honest, it was a cash grab, and it was despicable. But Michiko only held out her hand, gripping her magnifying glass. He handed it over, watched the old woman smile again and again at this Matsumoto Jun’s absurd request. 

Did this guy think Michiko would open her checkbook simply because of his name? Over the years, she had received numerous letters from Shiroyanagi Masaharu, requesting her presence at this fundraiser or that. He’d written letters that all but shamed Michiko for not giving them money, for ignoring her family. And Sho knew that before he’d been working for her, Shiroyanagi Masaharu’s father had done the same. It didn’t seem to register with these people that she’d broken with the company and wanted nothing more to do with it. Now it was clear that Shiroyanagi was at the end of his rope and had turned to the nearest relative he could grab to go after Michiko. 

“He says that he’s a baker,” Michiko said, gesturing to the paper with one of her wrinkled fingers.

“Which obviously means he has no right taking over a real estate firm.”

“I wonder if he makes croissants…”

“Michiko-san, this person is hunting for a blank check, and it would be unwise to indulge him. He doesn’t know or care about you.”

She looked up, shaking her head. “When I was twenty years old and the company fell into my lap, I didn’t want any part of it. I didn’t want the responsibility. The management of people, the hiring and firing. This boy works in a bakery and this extraordinary situation has fallen on his shoulders. And unlike me, stubborn people like me, he seems to want to help.”

“Of course he wants to help,” Sho protested. “Someone just walked in the door of his shop and told him he’s set to make millions if he just takes over the family business. Anyone would jump at the chance.”

Michiko looked down at the letter again. “I want you to meet him. I want you to tell me about him. Is he honest? Is he kind? Or is he just writing pretty words to come across as sincere?”

“You know exactly what his intentions are. He’s stated them very plainly.”

Michiko was firm. “I know exactly what he wants, Sho-chan, and you’d be wise to stop speaking to me like I’m an imbecile. What I’m asking of you is to assess the person, not the request he’s making.”

“You’d actually give him money?”

She leaned back against her cushions, wincing a bit as she tried to get comfortable. “I watched my brother turn his own daughter away for marrying someone he didn’t like, to let her move into poverty. I watched them grow fat and lazy, my brother and his son and his son after him, and still ask me for more every time they wasted what they had. And the ones who only had to ask, who only had to reach out…Atsuko, her family, they never did. They never once thought I owed them anything. For Hiroki’s boy to do something like this, there must be a reason.”

Sho knelt down before her, resting his hand beside her on the cushion. “Michiko-san, I don’t want anyone to try and take advantage of you.”

“Then you go meet this young man, and make sure he doesn’t.”

—

If there was a task Jun enjoyed, it was icing cakes. Getting it to the perfect consistency, concentrating on spreading it evenly, stepping back and seeing the results. Full cakes or cupcakes or a simple slice topped with a strawberry. It was the finishing touch, the culmination of something that had started out as not much more than eggs, flour, sugar…

It also required a great deal of his attention, getting it right, so it allowed him to tune out the other thoughts that kept trying to take over his brain. It had been almost a week now since he’d sent the letter to the address Masaharu-san had given him. Jun had agonized over the writing of it, the choice of words, the tone to take. Masaharu-san had said the old woman was a shut-in, a foolish old woman who let her money sit in a bank and rot instead of lending her family a helping hand. “Take a sweet tone with her, she’s probably senile. Tell her she’s investing in your bakery.”

Jun, having never met the woman, was disgusted with Masaharu-san’s suggestions and hints. At the end of the day, they were begging for money, and there was no point in lying about what it was for. So he’d said exactly what he was doing, and if Masaharu-san found out and got angry, then it didn’t much matter to Jun. What other choice did he have? Jun was his last resort.

He hadn’t told his father anything. This whole set-up was something Arisa might have gotten herself into, not Jun, and he felt too ashamed to confess that he stood to inherit Shiroyanagi Management if he was able to help Masaharu out. He hadn’t told Arisa either, and he wouldn’t tell her anything until he had a contract in hand naming him as Masaharu’s heir. The only person he’d told was Ohno, and mostly because Mr. Bake was his shop as much as it was Jun’s. If Shiroyanagi money helped out the shop someday, Ohno ought to know where it came from.

As the days went by and he received no response to his letter, Jun vacillated between being happy about this and anxious. Happy because if the old woman ignored him, well, then that was that. He’d failed Masaharu, Shiroyanagi Management would choose someone else to take over in April, and Jun could move on with his life and his actual passion. But he was also anxious because what if the woman did respond? What the hell would he say to her? “I don’t really want to run the company, but I’m just as much a sell-out as anyone else. Money makes my life and the life of my family easier.” 

Jun would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about what a CEO’s salary and freedom could bring him. Masaharu had bragged about what little he actually did as company chairman. Jun could funnel his energy and time into his real passions. Mr. Bake would be safe. They could expand the menu, improve every part of the process, hire more staff. Hell, they could open another bakery entirely. A larger location. Multiple locations. Start a proper catering service rather than the occasional drop-off of cupcake and cookie trays in the neighborhood. Jun had no qualms about being ambitious so long as it was for something he actually liked.

But these things were for him to think about later in the day and not now when they had a birthday cake to have delivered by the end of the afternoon, and the person wanted a message written out on the cake in English. Jun was not a quick study of languages, and he was going to have to rely on what the person ordering had written out on a notecard. It wasn’t like he’d know if he was correct or not.

He was midway through the message, agonizing over an “S” he was writing diligently with his piping bag, when Ohno came through the swinging door.

“Not now,” he said without even looking up.

“I told him you were busy so he left a card.”

“I said not now.”

“He says he works for Shiroyanagi…”

Jun finished the “S” in the nick of time, looking up in surprise. “He’s gone?”

“…Michiko.”

He could have smacked Ohno. “He’s gone already? Why didn’t you come in here immediately?”

Ohno scowled at him. “You need to make up your mind.”

He nearly slammed the piping bag down on the counter, opting instead to keep his rage to himself. “Where is he? How long ago did he leave?”

“Not even a minute. He bought some of your croissants and three pieces of shortcake. Nice guy.”

Jun nearly strangled himself yanking his apron over his head, tossing it aside and bursting through the swinging door. The shop was deserted, and Ohno came following behind, laughing his particularly annoying “why am I friends with you” laugh. 

“Just call him back. Here’s the card,” he said, holding it out.

Jun snatched it away. Sakurai Sho, it read. But there was no job title, no company name. Just a phone number and email address. Who the hell was this guy? “What did he look like? What was he wearing?”

“A red coat? Or maybe it was orange…” Ohno mumbled. Of all the times to be unhelpful. “It was a puffy coat?”

Jun shook him by the shoulders. “Okay, which way did he go?”

Ohno’s surly expression brightened. He had a solid answer. “Ah, to the left. He was probably going to the station. Maybe you’ll catch him?”

A complete stranger in a red or maybe orange puffy coat in the general vicinity of Ikebukuro Station? Sure, that would be simple. At least he’d be carrying a Mr. Bake bag. Before he could get any more fuzzy details from his partner, he took off, realizing as soon as the cold January air hit him that he’d made a rather stupid mistake by not grabbing his jacket. He had his phone in his back pocket at least and he did his best to walk straight and dial Sakurai-san’s number at the same time. The crowds parted for him, but probably because he was looking like a crazy person with no coat and smelled like frosting.

His call was answered on the third ring by a deep, but friendly enough voice. “This is Sakurai.”

Jun ducked out of the main street, plugging his ear with his finger so he could hear over the street noise. “Sakurai-san, this is Matsumoto Jun. I believe I just missed you in my shop?” Now that he was standing still, it was really damn cold. His teeth were already chattering.

The friendliness grew hesitant. “Oh, I see. I can call on you another time if you’re busy…”

“No,” Jun said, probably too quickly. “No, it’s fine. It’s totally fine. Please, um, if you’d like to come back to the shop, we could talk? You told my partner that you work for my Aunt Michiko?”

“I work for Shiroyanagi-san, yes,” Sakurai replied, with heavy emphasis on the -san.

He was already screwing this up. If he wasn’t so busy freezing, he could take time to imagine Masaharu-san kicking him in the ass. “Please allow me to refund you for your purchases, since you’ve come all this way.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes. Are you sure it’s no trouble?”

Jun was picturing his cake with his half-written English message. 

“It’s no trouble at all. Please, do come back.”

He hung up, letting out a shudder as he jogged back to the store, rubbing his hands together. Ohno was boxing up pastries for a customer, but made sure to shoot Jun an “I can’t believe you” look before turning back to the customer with his bright, cheerful smile.

Jun loitered in the store, nervously arranging and re-arranging one of the displays while he waited for this Sakurai to come back. The pastry customer left and five minutes later, the door opened once more. Ohno had been right with his first guess as Sakurai Sho entered wearing a puffy red coat and black earmuffs. He was probably close in age with him and Ohno, with a round, boyishly chubby face, his nose and cheeks pink from the cold as he asked them to pardon his intrusion. He was clutching the Mr. Bake bag in his gloved fingers, stomping non-existent snow from his boots on the rug at the front of the store.

Sakurai shifted a stray bit of dark fringe across his forehead, realizing he’d come in and had been staring at Jun for maybe a beat too long. He looked away, offering a little awkward wave to Ohno. “Hello again.”

“Thanks for your patronage,” Ohno said politely, inclining his head.

“You could…um, we could speak in the back,” Jun said haltingly. He was on home turf, so why was he the one feeling so nervous? Maybe it was the cold way Sakurai-san had said “Shiroyanagi-san,” as though Jun already had a strike against him.

Ohno seemed to be reading the strange atmosphere, and he came around the counter. “I’ll hold onto your bag.”

“Thank you,” Sakurai said, handing over his purchases before following Jun to the back. He paused as they passed by the cake. “That smells really good,” he muttered quietly, almost as though he hadn’t wanted to admit it aloud.

“It’s not finished,” Jun said. “But it’s banana cream.”

“I see.”

He escorted Sakurai to the office where just over a week earlier Shiroyanagi Masaharu had come by asking Jun to beg for money from this man’s employer. He stood by, crossing his arms for a moment before shoving his hands in his pockets while Sakurai shrugged out of his coat, holding it in his arms. Sakurai was wearing a dark cable-knit cardigan over a plaid button-down. He was giving off such an adorably rumpled professor vibe that Jun had to tamp down his embarrassingly immediate attraction. Instead he gestured for the other man to have a seat.

“So you work for Shiroyanagi-san? She’s received my letter?”

Sakurai nodded. “I’m her personal assistant. As you know, your relative is elderly and doesn’t leave the house. She asked me to come meet with you first. She’s not inclined to see many people in person. She’s very shy.”

“Then you know why I contacted her.”

Sakurai’s expression grew almost hostile. “I do.”

This was really not going well at all. “I’m not…I’m not making any demands of her. I know nothing about her, and she knows nothing about me, so I thought if maybe she and I could talk, we could get to know each other. We wouldn’t be strangers. I’m not…” He watched Sakurai desperately trying to keep his face neutral. “Sakurai-san, I know what this looks like to you.”

“Do you?”

He swallowed, wanting to sink through the floor. Then again, Jun was almost glad the old woman had an assistant who could look after her this way. Someone who clearly could sniff out people who were only after her money, as Jun obviously was.

“I didn’t want to lie to her. I will be honest with you and tell you that I know very little about all of this. I’m not close with that side of the family, and I’ve really only just been presented with this opportunity. To take over the company, I mean. I don’t even know if it’s what I want…”

Sakurai’s slightly unruly eyebrows rose in surprise. “You’re that uncertain and you still wrote a letter like that?”

“Yes,” Jun admitted freely, though he didn’t feel like admitting that getting Michiko-san’s money was more like a requirement Masaharu had laid out than a suggestion. Without her money, it seemed like Jun would be next in line to inherit a bankrupt Shiroyanagi Management.

Sakurai checked his watch. “I need to return within an hour or so, but if there’s anything in particular you’d like for me to relay to Shiroyanagi-san, I’ll listen.”

With the amount of contempt this Sakurai had for him, Jun wondered if he was going to go straight back to Michiko and tell her to reject his request without saying a word. But despite himself, despite his obvious reservations about Jun, he’d willingly made purchases at the bakery already. And then he’d complimented the cake.

Sakurai pulled a small notepad and pen from the pocket of his cardigan. “Do you have a business plan I could give her? Anything to show her precisely how her investment would be used?”

Jun froze. He definitely hadn’t thought that far ahead. “No, I actually don’t right now.” Sakurai’s eyes were icy and unforgiving, and Jun could feel his face burning in shame. “I…I think maybe all I have to share with her right now is myself. Who I am, what I do.”

Sakurai simply nodded, letting Jun ramble on, his pen scratching against paper. Jun gave the twenty minute “this is my entire life” story to Sakurai, telling him about his parents, his sister, his nephew Yosuke who would benefit the absolute most from Jun’s life-changing promotion. He told Sakurai about Mr. Bake, about his time in culinary school, about what he hoped to accomplish. Uncomfortable standing in one spot, he paced the floor, hoping he wasn’t behaving like a complete fool. Eventually he ran out of steam, looking over to see that Sakurai wasn’t even writing anymore.

He was watching him, leaning his elbow on the desk and just staring. When he seemed to realize that Jun had stopped talking, he hurriedly tried to collect himself. He started flipping through his little notepad, cheeks flushing. Any sense of sharpness, of rudeness, had somehow vanished while Jun had been talking. “Thank you, Matsumoto-san, I’ll be sure and let Shiroyanagi-san know about your…your interests.”

Jun cleared his throat, desperate for water after talking so long without stopping. But instead he tried to stay calm as Sakurai got up, bundling himself up in his coat. He escorted the man back to the front of the shop, and Ohno handed over two bags.

Sakurai looked embarrassed. “I only had the one…”

“Most of the stuff you bought was what Jun-kun made,” Ohno said, eyes alert with competitive spirit. “So I gave you some of the cupcakes I made.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind,” Sakurai said.

Two Mr. Bake bags in hand, Sakurai politely excused himself, disappearing back into the streets. Jun exhaled heavily as soon as he was out of sight, leaning back against the counter.

Ohno patted him on the shoulder. “Do you think the extra cupcakes will sway him?”

Jun couldn’t stop thinking about the way Sakurai had been watching him. Despite his obvious discomfort at the start, his changed mood had to mean something. But what?

—

Sho was furious with himself, fingers tapping the keys in an impatient staccato as he transcribed the information Matsumoto Jun had shared with him. He’d started the negotiations so strongly. Unflinching, demanding. And then he’d let something completely irrelevant, Matsumoto Jun’s appearance, throw him off.

It was so juvenile, so immature, but as soon as it had just been the two of them in that back room, Sho’s resolve had crumbled to dust. He was just a stranger, and he was a stranger who wanted to rob Michiko-san blind. But there’d been no evidence of that in the demeanor of the person he’d met that day.

Matsumoto Jun with his powdered sugar-stained apron tied tight around his narrow waist. With his bright smile and dark eyes and his entire life story. In maybe half an hour Sho had turned from Michiko-san’s last line of defense into a guy with an unfortunate crush. But how could he have not been taken in immediately? With the delicious-smelling shop lulling Sho into complacency, with the honest and open way he spoke about himself. He was a man who’d worked hard to get where he was, a man with drive and humility, a man who was clearly only doing this because he loved his family and wanted the best for them. He was so sure of himself, of who he was, what he wanted to do…well, save for what he wanted to do with Michiko’s money.

Sho moved away from the keyboard, fingers itching for his fork. He still had half a piece of the strawberry shortcake left, the treat that Matsumoto Jun had made so perfectly that each bite left Sho even more confused and annoyed with himself. It definitely didn’t help that Shihori, having just finished her own slice, had made the most inappropriate noises someone could make.

“Oh my god, this is so good,” she’d been mumbling, eyes closing in utter bliss. “This is insane! That guy made this?”

Sho allowed himself another ridiculous bite. He’d told himself that he was going to visit Matsumoto Jun, see for himself what a money-grubbing piece of work he was, and then confidently recommend to Michiko that she reject his request for a meeting. It would be over like that, and Sho could get back to what he was supposed to be doing - trying to get Michiko to work on her will.

Instead he’d found that Matsumoto Jun was as straightforward as the person in the letter had seemed to Michiko. 

He tamped down his petty attraction and forced his analytical side to return. Matsumoto was many things, but he was not a person prepared to take over Shiroyanagi Management. He had no plan for the amount of money needed, nor any plan for where it would go. These were big negatives. Huge negatives. Just because he could make a damn good strawberry shortcake, it didn’t mean he should have free money fall into his lap.

Once he’d gotten everything jotted down, he met with Michiko after her late afternoon nap. The woman already had him at a disadvantage, as she was having her fourth croissant when he came over to speak with her. In hindsight, it had been a bad move to bring the croissants back, seeing how much Michiko liked them. It was going to sway her opinion, Sho was sure of it. Shiroyanagi Michiko, who’d fling 50 million yen at a hospital after seeing some perky idol on TV ask for it, would be even more easily convinced after eating croissants made by one of her own relatives.

“Sho-chan,” she was saying, picking at little crumbs that had fallen on her blouse. She had no shame about shoving them into her mouth, savoring every last morsel. “Sho-chan, you simply must go back and buy more.”

“They’re closed,” he said quickly.

“Then tomorrow!”

It’s out of my way, he wanted to say. For the love of god, don’t make me go back. If I end up in that shop again, maybe even _I’ll_ start flinging money at Matsumoto Jun…

“What about Ohkura-san? You’ve been buying from his bakery for years. If I don’t show up tomorrow, he might think I’ve been in an accident.”

Michiko laughed, waving for him to settle in already. “These are better. Take all the time you need. Buy up their entire stock for the morning!”

Sho sighed, adjusting his laptop. “Of course, if that’s what you’d like, Michiko-san.” Of course the person set to rob her blind was someone who just happened to make incredible food, including her favorite little indulgence.

The old woman smiled, enjoying her last bite with a degree of satisfaction that made his heart ache. She was so happy in this moment, she’d agree to anything. And that was very dangerous. “Hiroki’s boy is so talented.”

Yes, at least in the kitchen, Sho thought. But she’d sent him to the Mr. Bake shop for a reason, and he was going to do his absolute best to be fair in his assessment. Michiko listened quietly, patiently as he read back his encounter with Matsumoto Jun. Yes, he was a very nice, polite person, Sho explained. Yes, he seemed to be very genuine, acknowledging that his request was rude and unorthodox. Sho read through his notes thoroughly, providing Michiko with all the details she needed to know.

About the life Matsumoto Jun had led until now, about his parents, his grandmother Atsuko who was still alive and thriving in a care facility. About his older sister and his young nephew, who, if Matsumoto-san inherited Shiroyanagi Management, might one day have a stake in it himself. It had all been rather heartwarming, seeing how badly this Matsumoto wanted a fulfilling life for his nephew. Sho could just see Michiko’s heart swelling with pride, knowing that not all members of her family were greedy, selfish people.

So as soon as Sho saw her leaning that way, he tried to ignore the lingering taste of that shortcake and reminded her of Matsumoto Jun’s shortcomings. That he had no plan, no idea about the money. That he had zero experience in the field of real estate. That for all his good intentions, he might take all of Michiko’s money and completely fail.

“You might be better off,” Sho hinted, “investing in his bakery. He seems to have a lot more plans where that venture is concerned than anything to do with Shiroyanagi Management.”

When Sho had completed his argument, having regurgitated everything Matsumoto said, Michiko spent a long couple of minutes thinking. For her this was actually sort of rare. The woman knew her own mind so strongly that Sho expected she’d already made her decision on Matsumoto Jun from the instant she received his letter, that Sho’s visit was a mere formality.

“Shihori-chan!”

Sho was a little startled and Shihori even more so when Michiko called her into the living room. The nurse gave Sho a confused little glance and he shrugged. Sho’s first horrifying thought was that Michiko was all set to play matchmaker, since she was teasing Shihori constantly about finding a husband worthy of her. Since Michiko probably considered croissant-making to be a grand accomplishment, perhaps she’d found a winner.

But instead Shihori sat beside Michiko, and the old woman took her hand. “Sho-chan is going to the Tateyama house soon.”

“In two weeks,” Sho said automatically, even as his confusion mounted. Michiko had owned the beach house along the western Chiba coast since before Sho was born. She had never once been inside it. Sho visited the place several times a year, checking how the property was being managed and looking after what she had stored there. He usually stayed overnight taking photos since Michiko liked to see how things changed through the seasons, over the years. She loved the pictures he took along the shore.

“We’ll be going with him,” Michiko said firmly, and Shihori’s eyes widened.

“What?” the nurse squealed.

“Michiko-san,” Sho interrupted, “what are you saying?”

Michiko smiled. “I’m going to have a little vacation. I think the Tateyama house would be lovely, even in January. Shihori-chan, you’ll come, and Sho-chan of course. And then we’ll invite Hiroki’s boy and…”

“Forgive me, forgive me,” Sho said, stopping her once again. “You want to _leave_?”

Shiroyanagi Michiko had left her Jiyugaoka apartment only twice in the ten years Sho had been working for her, both of them within his first year of employment. One time she’d gone out rather randomly with her previous nurse to look at cherry blossoms just across the street. The other time had been for a doctor’s appointment with a specialist whom she had never seen again, preferring only that her general doctor pay visits to her at home. This was extraordinary. The woman had never expressed any desire to go outside her own apartment, even though Sho and Shihori asked her if she’d like to once in a while.

“I want to meet this boy.”

“Matsumoto-san?” Shihori asked. “But why not host him here? He can bring his croissants straight to you.”

Michiko smiled. “What kind of hospitality can I give him here? No, no, that simply won’t do. We’ll open the Tateyama house, and we’ll show him a lovely time. Then he and I can talk about this money situation.”

Her health had always been fair for a woman her age, but such a plan was very risky. Shihori spent the next several minutes explaining as much. Michiko had been inside for a very long time. Traveling in winter put her at risk of a cold, and someone closing in on a century of life couldn’t fight back the way a young person could. There would be the strain of unfamiliar surroundings - a completely different house, different furniture. A different bed. A draftier old house compared to her always warm apartment. It was downright dangerous for her to leave.

“We have two weeks to get it all sorted,” Michiko said, tapping her blanket-covered lap. “I feel wonderful.”

Shihori and Sho exchanged a worried look. When Michiko wanted her way, they always gave in. Mostly because her usual demands - a new dollhouse, a changed TV channel, a different bath soap, a donation to a library or school - didn’t require her to go anywhere. And out of the blue, after nibbling croissants and getting a letter from a stranger, Shiroyanagi Michiko was all set to turn her life upside down.

Sho wondered if he should have said anything nice about Matsumoto Jun at all.

—

Sakurai Sho became a familiar face at Mr. Bake over the next several days. He arrived only minutes after the croissants came out of the oven, and Ohno already had a box open to load up for him. On that first day, Sakurai had looked so uncomfortable to be there that Jun thought he might have had the flu or something.

Instead he’d turned a bit red, dialing a number on his cell phone and handing it over. “She wants to speak with you.”

And so while Ohno had handled the front and Sakurai Sho sat quietly in his office, Matsumoto Jun spoke with Shiroyanagi Michiko for the very first time.

For someone so old, Jun had been astonished by how clear and precise her words were. There was no hesitation in her voice, only confidence. She had a rather youthful, girlish voice, and when Jun introduced himself, she let out the most adorable chuckle. “You sound like a very attractive young man,” she’d said in complete seriousness before introducing herself as though Jun had no idea who she was.

He’d had to turn his back on Sakurai, if only to not look at him while he spoke with his boss. Jun’s “aunt” was not the senile old bird Masaharu-san had blathered about. She was sharp and with an astonishing memory, proving to Jun that Sakurai had been listening to him quite closely. She was very insistent, demanding that Jun share pictures of himself, of his family, and especially of Yosuke with her. “Give them to Sho-chan, if you please. He’s my photographer. Ah, he does a little bit of everything for me. Please treat him kindly.”

At that, Jun had looked over his shoulder, seeing Sakurai was staring off into space. Jun turned back, grinning. Michiko-san had a very pleasant chat with him, and not once did the money come up. Jun figured it wasn’t worth broaching the topic himself. She already knew about it.

But then the conversation took an abrupt turn, and she’d informed Jun that they were soon to meet in person, that her “Sho-chan” was going to her home in Tateyama soon, and that Michiko herself was going as well. “You’ll come stay with me, Jun-chan, so we might become better friends.”

Jun panicked, especially when Michiko all but insisted that Jun come stay at this vacation house of hers for a full week! “I’m…I’m very grateful for this kind offer,” Jun had said, wondering what Sakurai thought of him. “But as I’m sure Sakurai-san has told you, I run a business. It would be an incredible burden for my partner to run the shop alone for so long a time and…”

“Put him on the phone. Is he there? Let me speak with your friend.”

Jun turned, looking at Sakurai. “You should probably do what she says,” Sakurai had said, crossing his arms.

He was at the mercy of a ninety-seven year old woman. He’d diligently gone back to the front of the shop and handed the phone to Ohno. Within five minutes, his sometimes lazy, often complaining partner was standing tall, determination in his eyes. Jun wondered what the hell the woman had even said to him.

“It would be no trouble at all,” Ohno was assuring her, and Jun couldn’t even hold back his surprise, his mouth gaping open as Ohno bowed his head. “No trouble at all. Please, look after Matsumoto-kun…what’s that? Oh, you liked them? Thank you very kindly for your patronage.” Ohno looked up, giving Jun a thumbs up.

And just like that it was decided that Jun would spend the final week of January in a Chiba beach house with the old woman whose money he needed, all expenses paid. “You have to go,” Ohno had insisted, smiling. “She’s totally going to help you if you go.”

And just like that, Sakurai Sho started to come by every morning to buy croissants for Shiroyanagi Michiko. Jun kind of hated how excited he’d get every time that puffy red coat came in the door. It seemed obvious to Jun that Sakurai Sho’s word meant a lot to Michiko-san, that she trusted him like no one else. The last thing Jun needed to do was make things any weirder between himself and Sakurai.

So Jun kept things professional. When the urge came up to give Sakurai a discount, to point out items in the case he’d kind of sort of made with the man’s obvious sweet tooth in mind, he stayed quiet. Much as Sakurai still didn’t seem to like him very much, he had no problem leaving the bakery each morning with both Michiko-san’s croissants and a lot more items that an older woman probably wouldn’t like. The way to Sakurai’s confidence was through his stomach, so he’d let his food do the talking for now. Even Ohno seemed to figure out Jun’s game, quashing his own pride in favor of recommending items for Sho to buy that didn’t have his baking signature on them.

He lied to his sister, asking her for photos of Yosuke, saying he wanted to have an album of them for himself. “Why don’t you just babysit him for once?” Arisa complained. “Take all the pictures you want then!” Jun hadn’t bothered to point out the fact that he babysat his nephew at least once a month so his sister and her husband could go out. Instead he’d just taken the photos she sent him and put together a collage for Michiko-san with the same amount of concentration he usually saved for cake. Even Sakurai had been surprised by the effort, letting out an amazed “Wow” when Jun had given it to him to bring over to his aunt.

The days ticked by, and Jun found little reason to worry about the future of Mr. Bake or Shiroyanagi Management. He received a handwritten thank you note from Michiko-san for the photos of Yosuke. Sakurai’s face looked a little fuller each morning, having perhaps eaten most of the cake he’d bought by himself. Ohno had even roped in his own sister and a few of her girlfriends to help out at the shop while Jun was gone. 

And when there was only a day left before he was to set out for Chiba, Jun felt like he was on much firmer ground when Shiroyanagi Masaharu’s people called, asking for Jun to stop by Shiroyanagi Management headquarters that evening around 6:30 PM.

He left Ohno to close up and headed to the headquarters in Shinjuku. Weeks earlier, Jun couldn’t have fathomed there being any reason for him to set foot through the doors. Now here he was, about to meet with Michiko-san for a full week, to argue his case, to see how willing she was to fund the family business. She had to be somewhat interested. You didn’t invite someone to stay with you for so long if you were planning to outright reject them. She was giving him all the time he needed to convince her.

He tried to stand confidently, adjusting his visitor’s badge as he was escorted into Masaharu-san’s office. Thankfully that tall, scary bodyguard of his was not in the room. He found the man sitting behind his desk, his thirtieth floor office looking out to all the other lit-up Shinjuku skyscrapers in the dark January night. 

After exchanging some brief pleasantries, Masaharu-san got straight to the point.

“You don’t have our money guaranteed as of yet, do you, Jun-kun?”

He stayed calm, shaking his head. He explained his pending trip, the way Michiko-san had sent her assistant to him day in and day out with further details about his stay. He was right at the cusp of securing the company’s future. Where he expected Masaharu-san to be thrilled with all he’d accomplished in so short a time, the man stared at him blankly.

“You must try to get as much as you can,” he said coldly.

Jun couldn’t help scoffing a bit at this. “I’m…I’m sorry, but shouldn’t we be happy with any amount she’s willing to give? She’s not a stupid person, I’ve spoken with her.”

Masaharu shoved a report across his desk, gesturing for Jun to open it. When he did, he found a financial statement, several pages long. It was worse than he’d even imagined, with the company already a month into the fourth quarter of their fiscal year. There were at least a dozen investments that had failed to bring in a profit, most likely investments Daisuke had overseen and overseen poorly.

“You go and you have a tea party with this old bat,” Masaharu said, and his tone was so harsh, Jun nearly winced. He didn’t give a damn about Michiko-san, that much was obvious. “And you can go right ahead and tell her what you stand to inherit when I’m gone. That without her, we tank.”

Jun’s anger was very difficult to tamp down. He’d done so much already, and it didn’t even matter. At the end of the day, Masaharu only cared about snatching as much as he could. This was why Sakurai didn’t trust him. Because no matter what Jun did, no matter how earnest Jun was, Shiroyanagi Masaharu was not.

“This is your future, Jun-kun,” Masaharu said. “And I’m doing all I can to make it better. Michiko’s legal representation has not changed since the 30’s, since she sold out to my grandfather. It was easy to get someone there to talk.”

“What do you mean?”

“Michiko is represented by the firm Kimura, Kato, Inagaki & Partners. And the biggest joke going around that firm right now is how she doesn’t have a will. She’s been in this world for almost a century and she’s got no will and testament, Jun-kun.” Masaharu’s eyes were almost triumphant, enough to send a shiver down his spine. “Do you know what this means?”

Jun did. He absolutely did, and all of the naive happiness the past two weeks had brought him started to slip away. What had he been thinking, going along with this? Thinking he was doing the right thing, that maybe his own integrity would be enough to make a difference for Shiroyanagi Management. “No I don’t,” he lied, voice thin and hesitant.

“It means that you’ll be with her for a week, and you can take it a step further. You either get her to give you money now, chump change, or you get her to write that will. And then maybe, just maybe, you’ll get everything.”

“Masaharu-san…”

“We’ve seen a lot of interest in Ikebukuro as of late,” Masaharu said calmly. “I can’t begin to tell you how many big names are looking to invest further in the area. Businesses with lots of employees. Wouldn’t it be nice if they had a local place, a nice local place where they could pick up a snack? You know OL’s and sweets, right? They can’t resist. But then again, I suppose if a big chain came to the neighborhood, that would satisfy the craving just as easily as a mom and pop store.”

Jun gripped the arms of the chair. “What are you trying to say?” 

“I’m just telling you how the market looks. It’s something you’ll have to learn. What makes a commercial district thrive. Or, in some cases, die.”

“Masaharu-san.”

The older man didn’t even look at him again. He was already picking up his phone, asking his secretary to send in his next appointment. 

“Thank you, Jun-kun. Please do have a lovely time in Chiba.”


	3. Chapter 3

Aiba Masaki had been the hired caretaker at the Tateyama house for over 8 years. He’d taken over from his grandfather, whom Michiko had hired to look after the place way back in the 1950’s when she purchased it. It was a rather strange job, Aiba was always telling Sho when he visited throughout the year, but it was a lot better than many other jobs.

Though Michiko had never once entered the house since she’d bought it, the entire place was fully furnished. It was an oddity from the 50’s, some construction boom along the shorefront that had specialized in “American-style” beach houses with white clapboard and blue shutters. Though most of the others had been torn down in favor of newer developments for tourists, Michiko-san’s place still looked just as it did in the black and white photos she kept in albums. This was mostly thanks to the diligence of the Aiba family in looking after it. Even after having endured a few small earthquakes over the years, they always knocked it back into shape.

It was set back a ways from the shore, with high fences to keep out prying eyes. The house itself boasted six bedrooms, three baths, and its own private patch of beach. The small caretaker cottage on property was where Aiba lived year-round, even though the luxurious house sat empty. His grandfather had never taken advantage of the absent owner, and his grandson followed in his footsteps. 

Aiba was a jack of all trades. He maintained the grounds, cutting the grass and planting flowers. He kept the exterior looking neat and trim, painting it when needed, cleaning out the gutters. He also maintained the interior, dusting the dollhouses and other items Michiko had Sho store there. A few years back the kitchen and bathrooms had all been completely redone under Aiba’s supervision to update the appliances and fixtures, and the photos he’d sent along to Michiko-san (mostly selfie-style shots of Aiba’s happy smiling face with the remodeled rooms in various stages of completion behind him) had endeared the man to her for life. She upped his salary every year, even though she still never set foot inside.

“There’s no reason to quit,” Aiba told Sho. “I’m a security guard. I’m a handyman. I’m an interior designer. And honestly, I spend my entire summer surfing. Why on earth would I quit working for Michiko-san?”

That morning Aiba Masaki had met his employer for the first time. He was a tall, skinny guy, with tanned skin from working outside even in the cooler months, and Michiko had been head over heels for him from the second Aiba escorted her slowly from Sho’s car and into the house. Though Aiba had been given relatively short notice to get the house ready for visitors, he’d stepped up without complaint, installing a ramp so Michiko could be brought in and out in a wheelchair.

Though the largest bedrooms were on the upper floor of the house, Aiba had quickly converted a study on the lower floor into a bedroom for Michiko. The old woman was already settling in nicely, and Aiba had set up a walkie-talkie system so Shihori, who’d be staying upstairs, could be summoned at a moment’s notice.

Sho hadn’t missed the way Aiba had been looking at Michiko’s nurse from the moment they arrived. Though Sho knew Aiba had had girlfriends over the years, something he had no qualms chatting about with Sho, things never seemed to last because of the oddness of his job and his refusal to quit. Shihori’s arrival, coupled with the week the two of them had spent calling each other back and forth with regards to ensuring the house was ready for a very elderly lady, had seemingly gotten the ball rolling in a positive direction there. 

Already Shihori had whispered to Sho that her bedroom upstairs was the only one with a fresh bouquet of flowers in it. “He moves fast, huh?” Shihori had said, though Sho could tell she quite liked the attention. After spending so much of her life cooped up in Michiko’s apartment with her, it was nice to see Shihori getting a break too.

With Sho, Shihori, and Michiko settled in at the house, they were only waiting on one more guest. Ninomiya and Kato both had been invited for the week, being the only other people in Michiko’s life she might tolerate seeing in person, but both had declined with work commitments. Although, both of them had told Sho privately, if Sho could get Michiko to move in the direction of getting a will started, they’d come down to Chiba in a heartbeat.

Sho’s phone rang shortly before dinner time. Shihori was bustling around in the kitchen, getting Michiko’s pre-packaged dinner ready, when he answered. “This is Sakurai.”

“Hello, this is Matsumoto.”

“Ah, Matsumoto-san, good to hear from you,” Sho said a bit loudly, if only so Michiko-san seated primly on the living room sofa could hear him. Her face positively lit up in joy with the knowledge that her now beloved croissant maker “Jun-chan” was on his way.

“I’ve just arrived at Tateyama Station, and I’ll be getting into a cab.”

Sho put his hand over the phone, telling Michiko that he was in town. She immediately started waving her hand, demanding he hand the cell phone over. “Jun-chan! Jun-chan, how are you? Ah, I’m doing well. I’m on vacation, aren’t I?”

Sho stood by diligently, hearing Shihori’s movements and cheerful humming in the kitchen, as Michiko talked Matsumoto’s ear off, wanting to know every detail about his journey. Though she’d wanted to pay for his ticket, Matsumoto had refused, taking the bus over the Aqua-Line bridge and down to Tateyama on his own dime.

“No!” she said loudly, startling Sho. “No, you will not!”

Shihori poked her head out of the kitchen at that. “What’s wrong?” she mouthed, and Sho shrugged.

“No, I simply won’t allow that. Sho-chan will come fetch you.”

Sho’s stomach knotted. Of course. Of course, she’d never allow Matsumoto to take a taxi to the house. He should have known. It had been a difficult two weeks for Sho. With Michiko’s new addiction to the Mr. Bake shop, Sho had been to the place every day, spending his mornings fighting through the commuter crowds. He had it so easy before, just taking the Toyoko Line the handful of stops to Michiko’s Jiyugaoka Station. Now he had to go to the end of the line at Shibuya, make his way up to Ikebukuro on the Metro and then come all the way back. It had added almost a full hour more of travel to his day, not counting the minutes he spent in the Mr. Bake shop trying not to get lost in Matsumoto Jun’s frustratingly nice brown eyes.

“Yes, he’ll come right away,” Michiko was saying. “It’s no problem at all. Good. Good then. I look forward to meeting you properly too. Bye bye.”

Michiko held out the phone as she always did, not interested in learning how to actually end the call. Sho took his phone back, shoving it a little roughly in his pocket. Shihori smiled as he grumbled his way into his coat. She had seen the bake shop bags Sho returned with every morning, all the additional purchases that came from Sho’s paycheck and not Michiko’s money. She knew that Sho had a growing “Matsumoto” problem.

“Great birthday, hmm?” Shihori teased him. It was Sho’s birthday today, the 25th, and Michiko had done nothing to spoil him. They’d left from Tokyo in the car that morning around 6:30, and Sho hadn’t had a moment’s rest.

He got in the car, thankful that it never got as cold down here in Tateyama as it could in Tokyo. He made his way to the station, finding Matsumoto Jun waiting with a rolling suitcase and a large blue plastic cake holder. “Hello,” Sho said, popping the trunk and taking Matsumoto’s bag. “More croissants? You always make a big impression with those.”

Matsumoto clutched the cake holder to him. “Ah, no. Not this time.”

They got in the car, and Matsumoto sat with it on his lap. Sho pulled away from the station, and now that they were closed into the car with one another, he could smell it. That smell that had trapped him from day one, that banana cream he’d smelled in the Mr. Bake shop’s back room.

“You made her a cake.”

Matsumoto hesitated, fingers drumming on the plastic. “Sort of.”

Sort of? Sho gripped the steering wheel. “What on earth did you make?”

“You’ll see.”

When they got back to the house, it was Aiba who greeted them, taking the cake holder from Matsumoto’s grip. “Sakurai-kun will show you where your room is,” Aiba said with a smile.

“Follow me then,” Sho said. Matsumoto followed him upstairs to the room between Sho’s own and Shihori’s. The guy seemed incredibly impressed with the house, setting his suitcase down on the bed. 

When Sho made to head back downstairs, starving for dinner, Matsumoto grabbed hold of his arm. He looked up, startled, only to find those damned eyes of his looking at him with amusement. “Just…wait a second.”

Sho stood there for a few achingly awkward moments, trying to ignore the man in his dark wool coat and purple scarf. It hadn’t helped that Sho had been forced to play middleman of late, ferrying pictures of Matsumoto Jun to add to Michiko-san’s growing collection, having to sit in the living room and watch her coo over him, saying over and over how “handsome” he was. As if Sho didn’t know already.

“Sho-chan!” came Michiko’s voice a few moments later. “Sho-chan, come here!”

Matsumoto finally let him go, and Sho headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. But what he hadn’t expected was for all the lights downstairs to be turned off. He clung to the bannister, stalling at the bottom of the staircase. “Did we lose power?” he asked.

But then there were voices, singing voices. Michiko-san from somewhere here in the living room, and Aiba too. Then Shihori coming in from the kitchen, and even Matsumoto Jun behind him on the stairs, although his singing was by far the quietest.

They were singing the Happy Birthday song for Sho, and Shihori was coming in from the kitchen with a cake. There were a handful of lit candles stuck in it, and Sho now realized why Matsumoto had been so evasive in the car. Sho stepped forward, embarrassed as Michiko’s rather poor singing voice drowned the other three out. He smiled despite himself as Shihori set the cake down on the living room table. As Aiba turned the lights back on at the song’s conclusion, Shihori wrapped him up in a hug.

“Happy birthday, Sho-kun,” she said, gesturing for him to make a wish.

“Surprise!” Michiko was saying, clapping her hands, giving Sho one of the biggest smiles he’d ever received. He felt horrible in that moment, having being annoyed with Michiko for running him ragged all day. He looked down at the incredibly fancy cake she’d had Matsumoto make for him, could see “Happy Birthday Sho!” written out neatly in English script.

He looked over, saw Matsumoto still standing by the staircase. He inclined his head, a small smile on his face. 

“Thirty-three years old,” Aiba said, chuckling. “Getting up there!”

Michiko laughed. “You don’t even know, Masaki-chan! Be quiet!”

Sho crouched down, staring at the candles, wondering how much time Matsumoto had spent making the cake. Getting through this week was going to be incredibly difficult. He wished only for Michiko to make the right decision, blowing out the candles and hearing the kind applause of his friends.

—

Jun was grateful that Michiko-san’s nurse, Shihori, was very insistent that her charge turn in early for the evening after her long day of traveling and trying to settle in a new place. He didn’t think he could spend another minute in her company without his guilt driving him mad.

After they’d all enjoyed the cake for Sho-san, it had been time for Jun and Michiko to be properly acquainted. She was a small woman, almost buried under a mound of blankets. She was dressed simply, her eyes looking large behind her massive glasses. She didn’t hesitate to inform Jun that she had gone to “great lengths” to look nice for him, fishing for a compliment that he found himself giving easily. Despite her age, despite her obvious shyness, once you were granted entry to Shiroyanagi Michiko’s inner circle, you were loved, you were adored. And it felt so warm, so freely given that Jun almost wanted to grab his suitcase and go home.

To go right to Masaharu-san and tell him no. No, there was absolutely no way he could do this. Even if Jun was being transparent with his intentions, and even if Michiko-san knew that was the case, he didn’t want to take anything away from her. She’d called him several times since her initial invite, thanking him every time he’d sent along some more photos with Sho-san. In introducing herself, helping him to get to know her, she’d told him of the various ways she spent her money. About her fondness for dolls, for art, for helping children. What right did Jun have to take that money from her, money she so happily spent on the needy and unfortunate, and instead funnel it into Shiroyanagi Management? Or even into his own business venture?

He tossed and turned in bed that night, frustrated with himself for letting Masaharu and his threats get to him. Because that’s what this all was, in the end. A threat. Masaharu hadn’t actually come to Jun with any sort of good intentions, perhaps even feigning or overexaggerating his grief to get Jun to listen. He’d appealed to Jun’s drive to succeed. He’d appealed to Jun’s love for his family. He’d come with a solution that would get at both of those things, and Jun had fallen for it like a complete sucker.

And now that Masaharu had hooked him, had gotten Jun involved and practically pushed him into Michiko’s good graces, he had turned on him. Now Jun was in way too far, and if he didn’t cooperate, if he didn’t push Michiko to go along with things, Masaharu had all but assured him that Mr. Bake would fail, that his livelihood, that his dream (and Ohno’s too) would be at risk.

Here he was, having gotten a reclusive woman to break out of her shell, to leave Tokyo for the first time in a decade, and she was going to give in. She was going to ask him how much he wanted, and given how fond of him she was already, she would probably double it. She’d paid five times what Sho-san’s surprise cake had actually been worth, something that had earned Jun a rather nasty phone call from the woman’s accountant Ninomiya the day before.

He couldn’t sleep so he got up, slowly creeping down the hall and heading downstairs. He was enjoying this woman’s hospitality, so easily offered, and he was starting to hate himself for it. Jun headed for the kitchen, hoping there might be some milk he could warm up to make him drowsy. Instead he found Sakurai Sho, with adorably rumpled bed hair and a tight-fitting gray Keio University t-shirt, sitting at the table eating a massive piece of leftover cake.

Before he could flee back to his room, his foot managed to squeak on a floorboard and Sho looked up.

His already large eyes widened even more, and Jun couldn’t help staring at the tiny cake crumbs that had managed to stick themselves to Sho’s fat bottom lip. “I don’t…” Sho said, setting his fork down in shame. “I don’t usually eat like this in the middle of the night.”

Jun smiled despite himself, hovering in the doorway. For all that his face was rather chubby, the rest of him was not. Jun swallowed at the way the t-shirt clung to Sho’s chest, his muscled arms. This was the last thing Jun needed to see right now when he was trying to properly loathe himself for making poor decisions the last few weeks. Spending time in the diligent, thoughtful (and attractive) Sakurai Sho’s company was not something he deserved.

“No judgment from the person who made the cake. I’ll take it as a compliment that you’ve stolen down here to eat more of it.”

Despite his obvious reservations, Sakurai gestured to the kitchen chair beside him. “Here, if you eat some I won’t feel as disgusting.”

He really had sliced a large chunk of it for himself, and Jun held in a grin as Sakurai got up, grabbing him a fork. He was only wearing a pair of ugly orange boxer shorts with his t-shirt, and Jun instead tried to focus on the cake. Sho seemed to realize at that moment how scantily clad he was, rushing back to the table as quickly as he could. 

When his chair scraped along the kitchen floor, Jun put a finger to his lips. “You’re going to wake your boss up, Cake Boy.”

Sakurai scowled at him, holding the other fork out like it physically pained him to have to share the slice with him. Jun took it, helping himself to a bite. It had kept remarkably well on the bus ride, jostling around all the way from Tokyo, but Shihori-san had put the leftovers in the fridge and it was almost better now after having been chilled for a few hours. 

“I’m really good at making cake,” Jun bragged, getting a small chunk of banana in his bite.

Sho sighed, taking another large bite and agreeing. He didn’t seem to care if Jun saw him talk with his mouth full, and it just endeared him to Jun all the more. “It’s insanely good.”

They sat quietly for the next several minutes, gobbling up the slice until there was hardly a crumb left on the plate. He almost wished Sakurai would go back to the way he’d behaved on their first meeting, when he’d been borderline rude, properly accusatory. When he’d seen through all the bullshit and understood from the beginning that Jun was just playing nice to get his boss’ millions. It would be much easier for Jun if Sho didn’t think of him in any sort of positive light.

When the cake was gone, he could see the wheels in Sho’s head turning. Did he get more cake, prolong their silence? Did he make small talk? Or did he run away? Jun decided to go for small talk, if only to give the cake time to settle in his belly, to make him properly tired.

“You went to Keio?”

Through these past few weeks, with Sho’s visits to the shop, Sho hadn’t really talked much about himself. Sakurai Sho probably knew everything there was to know about Matsumoto Jun, if only because he had to in order to relay it to his employer. Jun mostly knew that Sho had a red coat, worked his ass off, and liked to eat.

Sho nodded. “Yeah. Economics.”

Jun was impressed. He’d probably come from a well-to-do background. Keio was one of those schools that weren’t a possibility for people like Jun. Arisa had grown up dreaming of going to Waseda or Keio herself, rubbing elbows with people like their cousin Daisuke, but she’d had to settle for a reality check.

“Then how did you end up working for Michiko-san?”

Despite Jun’s usual adherence to a good diet, Sakurai talked him into round two of cake. While he got another slice from the fridge, he opened up, telling Jun how it had all happened, how weird it had been, telling his parents what he was actually doing. Sho set the plate down again, shaking his head.

“They thought I was nuts, at least until I told them what she was going to pay me to take pictures of dolls.”

“How much is that?” Jun reddened in embarrassment almost as soon as he’d blurted out his question. “I’m sorry, that was rude to ask.”

Sho shrugged, not seeming to care. After all, Jun knew he worked for a wealthy woman. And Jun was, of course, here to get his own piece of that fortune. Jun watched as Sho traced a number of zeroes with his finger on the table.

“Seriously?” Jun asked, astonished.

Sho nodded. “Yep. And that’s just, you know, like a base salary. She paid for the car I use to get around, or she pays for my other transportation costs since I have to go ‘round to all her houses, check in throughout the year. She keeps me busy, your aunt.”

It was the first time Sho had really bothered to acknowledge the family relation between his employer and Jun. Until now, she had always been strictly “Shiroyanagi-san.”

“Do you ever think about quitting?”

Sho met his eyes, held his gaze for a few seconds. It was too much, Sho’s look, so Jun busied himself with another unnecessary bite of cake.

“No,” Sho admitted. “I don’t.”

“Why?”

“It takes a lot for Michiko-san to trust someone, to open up to someone new. The thought of leaving her, forcing her to find a replacement for me. It just seems cruel.”

Jun’s respect for Sho grew immensely. No matter how many zeroes he traced on the table, Jun got the impression Sho wasn’t doing it for the money. “Do you ever think about…” Jun shut his eyes, mentally kicked himself. “Never mind.”

“What?”

He took a breath. “Do you ever think about what you’ll do…after?”

Surely it wasn’t so unreasonable a question, given Michiko-san’s age, but Jun knew how it had to sound, given who he was and what he technically wanted. Whatever points he’d earned with Sho that evening had probably just depleted.

To Jun’s surprise, Sho actually laughed. “I can’t even think about it. Her lawyer, Kato-san, he’s asked me this constantly. He’s not afraid to ask the, ah, the tough questions. Your aunt doesn’t have a will, because I think she’s convinced herself that she’ll live forever. So you don’t even want to know how many conversations I’ve had with her where I ask her when she’s going to finally do it, and she just shuts me down. It’s like, how can I even imagine a world without Michiko-san in it? When I can’t even get her to think about it?”

Jun said nothing. He already knew Michiko-san didn’t have a will.

Sho smiled, a genuine smile that made Jun feel even worse. “Maybe you can help me talk her into it. Working on the will, I mean. Since she’ll do anything for one of your croissants.”

He wanted to run, but that would just confuse Sho-san all the more. Instead he stabbed out with his fork, getting the last bite. “If you think it would help.”

—

He shivered as he hurried up the steps, knocking on the front door. Shihori was still in her pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt when she answered, rolling her eyes at him. “I thought this was supposed to be a vacation,” Shihori teased.

Sho shook his head. “Please, you know how she is.”

Shihori let him in, and Sho shrugged out of his shoes and coat, bringing the stack of newspapers he’d hurried out and bought into the kitchen. He could have driven down the road, but he’d used the walk to wake himself up after his strange night. He’d shared cake with Matsumoto Jun and had managed to do it without yelling at him. Or worse, hitting on him. His irritation grew each day, his frustration over Jun’s motives fighting against his undeniable attraction. The stupid, delicious cake had made things even harder.

He found Aiba in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee while Jun was frying something up in a skillet on the stove. Michiko-san’s breakfast was turning methodically in the microwave, but Sho was horrified to smell eggs and sausages. “I thought you just made bread!” he accused, settling in beside Aiba.

Jun looked back over his shoulder, grinning. “I have a specialization, yes, but anyone can fry an egg.”

“Then you don’t know our Sho-kun very well yet,” Shihori joined in, leaning back against the counter and watching Jun cook. “He’s completely hopeless.”

“I am not,” Sho protested.

Aiba set down his coffee mug, beaming. “Is that why you always want to just go out to eat when you come down here? When I always offer to get groceries for you?”

Mortified, he glared at all three of his companions. “What is it, gang up on Sakurai day? It’s my birthday!”

“Yesterday was your birthday,” Shihori teased. “It’s open season again now.”

“Shihori-chan!”

Like a sixth sense, the microwave dinged with Michiko-san’s meal as soon as she called out. “I’ll be right there!” The nurse took the hot meal from the microwave, scooping it out onto a real plate as Michiko preferred.

Jun gave her a tap on the shoulder. “Wait.” He then scooped a bit of oatmeal out of one of his bubbling pots, putting it on the plate Shihori had prepared. “Be sure and tell her that’s from me.”

“Mmm, boring oatmeal,” Aiba said. “When I’m old, is that all it’ll take to win me over?”

While Shihori stayed in Michiko’s room to help her eat, the three men sat around the table, devouring the hearty western-style breakfast Jun had made them. Sho felt like he ought to run for miles, considering all the cake he’d shoved down in the middle of the night. Sitting with Aiba and Jun, who were both trim and fit, made him feel all the worse.

Jun eyed the stack of newspapers Sho had brought in, gesturing to them with his fork. “What’s all that?”

Sho did his best to explain his daily tasks, summarizing the news and then going over any business from Kato or Ninomiya. Aiba munched on a sausage link, amused. “What if you’re out of town, Sho-chan? She does give you days off.”

“I still do it, but I just email it to Shihori-chan, and then if Michiko-san has questions, she calls me.”

Aiba and Jun exchanged an incredulous look.

“It’s not that weird,” Sho mumbled, digging into his oatmeal. Like everything else Jun had made, it was perfect.

As Sho had suspected, Michiko had absolutely wanted Sho to keep up his duties despite her “vacation” status. He had emails from Kato - the dollhouse from Germany was finally underway, and Michiko could expect it come April. Ninomiya had sent out several donations to animal charities Michiko had requested, forwarding along the receipts and thank you letters from the various organizations.

While he was here at the house, Sho informed her, he was happy to do his usual inventory and photography runs, but Michiko had other ideas. She wanted Sho to bring several of them to the ground floor and out of the extra bedrooms where Aiba had put them. She wanted a grand show with her dolls. “Jun-chan can help you. Let’s make him work for it, hmm?” 

The twinkle in her eye reminded Sho that she’d already made her mind up. Any minute now, she’d probably be asking to speak privately with Jun, and then the headaches would begin. Sho had already given Ninomiya a heads up, and he was just as wary about it as Sho was. “Why can’t she donate to my retirement fund instead?” the accountant had whined jokingly on the phone the other day.

So once his business with Michiko was concluded for the day, Sho had the uncomfortable task of recruiting Jun to help with the dolls. Somehow or other, Aiba had managed to talk Shihori into going into town with him, ostensibly to buy bulbs and gardening supplies for the spring season ahead. Sho suspected that it had been Shihori’s idea entirely. She had always been a little creeped out by Michiko’s doll collection, happy that she only had to see photos most of the time back in the apartment.

That left him and Jun to rummage through the spare bedrooms. For the first few minutes, Jun had stood in the doorway, astonished by the massive plastic tubs stacked high. In each of them were dolls wrapped in tissue paper, sets of clothing, and their accessories - miniature handbags, jewelry, shoes. All custom ordered and made to Michiko’s exact specifications. After ten years of doing it, Sho had simply grown used to stripping the doll clothes off, putting on a different dress that Michiko had wanted to see in photographs.

He was on the floor, cross-legged, halfway through buttoning up a princess’ gown when he caught Jun staring at him. He narrowed his eyes. “She wanted to see the Korean dolls in the ceremonial outfits.” He gestured to a tub to Jun’s left. “Can you get me the one marked ‘Joseon Wonsam - Green’ out of there please?”

Jun gaped at him. “Huh?”

Sho sighed, setting the doll back on the floor. His Korean wasn’t that horrific, but still. He headed to the tub, prying off the top. He saw Jun really look for the first time. Sho had labeled every single thing in every single tub in every single house, whether it was a tag he’d tied around a doll’s ankle or something he’d scrawled on the tissue paper in Sharpie. He’d come up with the filing system within the first six months of working for Michiko-san. Before, everything had just been tossed haphazardly around by the lazy people who’d worked for her before. Instead of spending hours digging through piles of clothes, now he could find things in minutes. It gave him more time to take pictures and to check her houses and apartments for things that needed maintenance.

“See,” he said, tapping on one of the tissue paper clumps. It was labeled with the tub’s number and an individual item number. “Joseon Wonsam - Green. It’s a topcoat, goes over her little dress. Princesses wore green ones and…”

When he looked up, Jun’s face had gone blank. He’d completely lost him now, sighing as he unwrapped it.

“Why don’t you just…there’s the Korean temple set in the next room. It’s in a tub with a 5 on it. Bring the tub downstairs and we’ll set the dolls up in the living room for her.”

Jun looked embarrassed, stopping him with a hand to his shoulder. “Sho-san, I’m…I’m sorry. I just hadn’t realized…you really do put in a lot of work for her, don’t you?”

“Well,” he admitted, wishing Jun hadn’t taken his hand away already. “I do know a hell of a lot more about royal clothes from around the world than I wish I did.”

He moved, retrieving the doll. He held it up, wiggling it in Jun’s face. “Let’s have you put the wonsam on her. Michiko-san will be really happy if you do.”

Once they had the dolls dressed, they got the temple set up in the living room. Sho wasn’t used to having an audience, and Michiko watched them from the couch with tears in her eyes. How long had it been since she’d even played with one of her dollhouses? She gave firm directions, holding tight to her blankets, telling Sho to pose her precious dolls at various places so she could admire them. And then she’d direct Jun, having him take pictures with Sho’s camera so she could add them to her albums and look again at a later date.

“Sho-san, you’re in the shot,” Jun said, waving at him.

“No,” Michiko said. “No, he’s never in any of my pictures.” Sho looked up, his heart aching a bit to see the way Michiko was watching him. “If he’s in the shot, I don’t mind.”

Sho had never even thought of it. He saw Michiko-san almost every day, why would she even want a picture of him?

Once the dolls had been posed the way she liked, Sho picked up the little princess doll in her green topcoat. Michiko took the doll with such care, holding it almost like a baby. Sho was fairly certain that Michiko had never even seen this doll save for the pictures Sho had taken. She stroked the fabric of the topcoat, slipped her fingers through the strands of the doll’s hair. “So darling,” Michiko-san whispered. “What a little darling.”

Sho couldn’t help smiling. This vacation, maybe it hadn’t been such a bad thing after all. When he heard the shutter, he looked over, startled. Jun lowered the camera, brushing a tear from his eye and grinning.

“That’s a keeper,” he said quietly, and in that moment he looked so sad that Sho could only look away.

—

Though Shihori had already put her to bed, Michiko-san had insisted that Jun come to her on the fourth evening of their “vacation.” Shihori brought in a chair for him, setting it on the left side because Michiko was hard of hearing on the other side. He was nervous, sitting there while Shihori arranged her pillows so she could sit up comfortably.

“I’ll be just upstairs,” Shihori said quietly, giving Jun the briefest of smiles before departing the room.

Masaharu had emailed Jun each morning since he’d arrived. “Any progress?”

Jun hadn’t answered, turning his phone off and leaving it in his room. He’d spent most of the last few days playing at dolls once again with Sho. As odd a hobby as it was, seeing Michiko-san with her dolls, seeing the pure, innocent joy in her face…it made Jun feel like the worst person in the universe. He’d just written his way into her life with his pathetic letter. She was perfectly content with things the way they were, a life where she’d simply said “no, thank you” to her brother’s excesses. He just wanted to leave her alone, to let her put her money into her charities, into the things that actually meant something to her.

“I wonder if you could make another cake,” she said, smiling at him with her cheerful, wrinkled old face. “If you need anything, Masaki-chan could go to the store and pick it up.”

“I’ll leave him a list. I’d be happy to make you anything you like. What about croissants?”

“Oh, but Sho-chan likes cake more than bread, wouldn’t you say?”

Jun wondered if the old woman could see his face flush. “If…if that’s what you want, sure, I can make another cake. What kind?”

She pondered this for a moment. “I did like your shortcake, although it’s a little sweet for my teeth. But Sho-chan adored it. I’ve never seen a boy eat so much whipped cream!”

Jun smiled weakly. “Am I making this cake for you or for him, Michiko-san?”

She waved her hand. “You’d better make it how he likes it. Shihori-chan can just scrape the extra whipped cream off of mine, that’s just fine.”

“I’m happy to make it to anyone’s taste…”

She was quiet for a few moments, watching him with her astonishingly sharp eyes. “Jun-chan, do you think Masaharu will use the money wisely?”

It was the first time in four days, in fact, the first time in their entire acquaintance that she’d gotten straight to the point about the money. “Michiko-san…”

“Oh, I don’t want you to defend him. That man has no qualms about thinking I owe him. He’s from a long line of men obsessed with money, there’s no point in denying it.” She let out a little sigh. “I’m not terribly concerned with his motivations, but seeing as you’ll be the one most affected in the future by what he decides to do, I thought it best to ask you directly. Now tell me plainly, do you think Masaharu will invest my money in the best interests of his company? For the benefit of you or little Yosuke?”

Jun thought of the messages on his phone, the rather dark turn his last meeting with Masaharu had taken. He found himself reaching his hand out, linking his fingers with Michiko’s. He thought she’d pull away, but her grip was surprisingly strong. 

“I don’t think it’s the company he cares about. Not in the long run. It’s his comfort.” Jun looked down, thinking of Mr. Bake, its uncertain future. “I agreed to his plan because I thought it would make my life easier. I thought if I had the Shiroyanagi money that I could reach my dreams. But all of my dreams, Michiko-san, they’re about my business, my bakery. Not the future of Shiroyanagi Management. I’m as selfish as Masaharu-san, in the end.”

She squeezed his hand tighter. “Don’t apologize. Don’t apologize for wanting to be successful. I’ve lived my entire life with ease, thanks to the money I received from my father. I don’t know what it’s like to struggle or to have to work to earn my keep.”

“But you give so much to help others…”

“…and I use the rest to buy dolls. I indulge my whims like anyone else,” she reminded him. “Jun-chan, I’m going to call my little pup and I’m going to call my lawyer and tomorrow…tomorrow we’re going to hammer something out.”

Jun almost wished he was telepathic, that he could send out a warning alarm to Sho and get him to hurry downstairs to hear this. “What do you mean?”

“They’ve been pestering me about this will business, and I suppose I’ve troubled them enough about it. If I write you a check today, I just know you’ll put it straight into Masaharu’s hands, regardless of what I tell you to do, because you’re an honest, sweet soul. And that’s simply unfeasible. No, no, what I’ll do is I’ll have that money set aside for you. It’ll go to Shiroyanagi Management, sure enough, but only in the event that you are in charge…”

“But I don’t…” He could feel tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “I don’t really think I have what it takes to run the company. I don’t even want to…”

“Then you do what I did. You find yourself in charge of that company and you let someone buy it out from you. And then you’ll have your bakeries. You’ll have money to set aside for little Yosuke’s future too. Masaharu can’t bother you or me again if the money’s willed to his company, and if it’s in your name, he has to respect whatever decisions you make.”

“This seems like more of a bother than anything,” he said. “An awful lot of trouble to go to…”

“Well you certainly aren’t getting all of it,” she snapped back with a quickness that made him smile again. “Jun-chan, relax. Everything will work out just fine.”

She asked for his help in getting her under the covers, to adjust her pillows again, so she wouldn’t have to wake Shihori. With a heavy heart, Jun closed Michiko-san’s door behind him. He trudged up the stairs, angry. Just as predicted, she’d decided he was worthy of her money when he felt like the opposite was true. And now tomorrow she’d put it in writing. A woman who thought herself invincible, writing her last will after putting it off for years.

He was just at the top of the stairs when he stopped, seeing Aiba-san and Shihori laughing quietly by her bedroom door. They both turned, seeing him there. It was certainly a productive “vacation” for everyone. Aiba straightened up, stepping back and heading Jun’s way. “Ah, good night, Matsumoto-kun,” he said, chuckling nervously as he hopped down the stairs and off to his cottage.

Jun looked back, seeing Shihori looking at him. “Bad timing,” she chided him, the short and spunky little nurse who had looked after his aunt’s health without complaint for so many years. “Bad timing, Jun-kun!”

He held up a hand in apology, slipping past her door, entering his own. When he turned his phone on, there was yet another message from Masaharu-san. But this time it wasn’t any inquiries about his progress. Instead it was an email Masaharu had blind-copied him on. A discussion of real estate pricing and opportunities in the Ikebukuro area.

“Yes, I’m happy to meet soon to discuss options,” Masaharu had written to the prospective client.

A threat, plain and simple. Jun was apparently taking too long. He wanted to open his window and fling the phone out into the grass. Instead he sunk to the floor, remembering how plainly Michiko had spoken to him, how she wanted to help him when Jun had only known her for so short a time. How she knew and had seen through Masaharu’s ploy from the very beginning and still didn’t mind.

He should have never written that letter. And now it was too late.

—

It shouldn’t have surprised Sho that Kato and Ninomiya made it down to Tateyama in record time, allowing for Sho to fetch them from the train station by midday. Though Sho had met with them dozens of times over the years, this was actually their first meeting with their employer. They spoke with Michiko-san on the phone constantly, but this was certainly turning into quite the social week for her.

Aiba had leapt to action, getting Michiko’s dolls and the storage tubs moved from the spare rooms, consolidating them all into one with Jun’s help. Though Kato and Ninomiya both hinted that they had no desire to spend the night, Michiko and her forceful personality managed to change their minds. Or, more like, she had greeted them and said she’d sign no will unless they both enjoyed her hospitality for the evening.

And so there was a larger crowd gathered around the table in the kitchen that evening, and Sho had to admit that he felt slightly sorry for Jun. Aiba, a friendly person, was keeping the conversation going, having immediately found a friend in Ninomiya, who was just as obsessed with baseball as he was. But when there was a lull in the talking, Sho could sense the suspicion raiding off of Michiko-san’s lawyer and accountant. It was Jun’s arrival that had gotten Michiko to move on the will, and they were as paranoid as Sho had been at the start.

But over these last few days in Matsumoto Jun’s company, Sho had come around on him in the same way Michiko-san had. And no, not just because of his cooking or his baking or his cool, handsome face. Sho had seen how gentle Jun was with Michiko, how in such a short amount of time the old woman opened up to him where the mere concept of meeting someone new had terrified her only a month or two earlier. He was the only person in her family that she’d met face to face in nearly eighty years.

Michiko-san didn’t want to “talk business” at all that first night, so they’d all gathered around her in the living room, the small circle of thirty-somethings and almost thirty-somethings she’d managed to wrangle together over the years. They could have been her grandchildren, maybe even her great-grandchildren. The stiff, inflexible Kato was “Shige-chan” by the end of the night, much to his chagrin. And then Michiko had let a “pup” slip out and Ninomiya discovered that for all these years, Michiko had been thinking of him as her loyal canine.

“I’d be insulted,” Ninomiya said, the small man curled up contentedly in one of the living room chairs and sipping hot chocolate, “but if that’s what Micchan wants, it’s okay.”

At the casual “Micchan,” Michiko squealed almost like a young girl, clapping her hands. “Nothing but flirts and flatterers, that’s what I’ve hired, hmm?” the old woman cheered, smiling from ear to ear. She was the princess from one of her dollhouses come to life, surrounded by her adoring subjects.

Shihori eventually announced that it was time for bed, and Michiko made a big fuss about wanting to stay up all night. It didn’t last and Sho couldn’t help noticing that the old woman was slower in getting up than she had been in a while. Shihori noticed too, meeting Sho’s eyes briefly as she helped Michiko walk to her bedroom. It was a lot she was enduring, a lot of excitement, so Sho hoped things would calm down again once Kato and Ninomiya had concluded their business the next day. Perhaps it was best for Michiko-san’s health if they stayed a little longer in the Tateyama house instead of moving her back to Tokyo so abruptly again.

Sho left Kato and Ninomiya in the kitchen with leftovers from a perfect strawberry shortcake Jun had made, the two men who had kept the old woman afloat for so long. They were both poring over various drafts they planned to present to Michiko the following day. Kato typing and typing on his laptop with Ninomiya leaning over his shoulder, making suggestions. Sho didn’t know the first thing about it, so he left them to it.

After putting Michiko to bed, Sho hadn’t missed Shihori slipping out the back door, heading in the direction of Aiba’s caretaker cottage. “We’re just chatting,” Aiba had assured Sho that morning when he’d pulled Aiba aside, feeling rather protective of Shihori, who’d become as close as a sister over the years. “Honestly, Sho-chan, it just feels good to talk to someone who understands.”

That left him to head upstairs alone, stretching. He needed a good night’s sleep, especially with the arguments and headaches he was anticipating come morning as Michiko started listing her requests and Ninomiya started bitching about the money. He heard a little noise coming from one of the far bedrooms, the one that had been left without an occupant and that now held all of Michiko’s things.

Sho tapped his fingers on the door, pushing it open to find Jun sitting in the middle of the floor all alone, going through one of the storage tubs. He looked up, nodding his head. “Sho-san.”

Sho looked around, the room nearly overflowing with things. Jun, seated where he was, looked almost tiny there, surrounded by Michiko’s things. “What are you doing?”

Jun picked up one of the wrapped bundles of tissue paper. “Aiba-san and I had to consolidate some of the loose items into these tubs when we moved them, just so we didn’t have to make a hundred trips back and forth. But I didn’t want to mess up your system, so I’m taking them back out.”

Sho felt warm, even though he was just in a t-shirt and jeans, shuffling through the house in a pair of slippers. “Oh, you didn’t have to go through so much trouble. I’ll be back here in a few months, sorting it out again anyhow…”

“I wanted to,” Jun said earnestly, setting the tissue paper bundle aside.

Sho couldn’t help walking in, closing the door so they didn’t wake Michiko downstairs. With most of the floor covered, his only option was to sit down beside Jun. He regretted it as soon as he did it though, realizing that there wasn’t as much room as he anticipated. He could smell Jun beside him, the light scent of whatever cologne he was wearing. He only seemed to wear it here. Maybe working with food all day, he didn’t dare wear anything with a scent.

Jun seemed to realize that Sho was close too, trying to scoot over a little, but failing when he collided softly with yet another tub. “She has a lot of stuff,” Jun said, shifting as best he could.

Sho peered into the tub Jun was already going through. “Have you figured out my system yet?”

Jun sounded rather proud of himself, nodding. “You’ve got a year on them, I mean, that’s what I assume these numbers are. And then here’s a second number, and based on what I’ve found, this second number designates a group of like items.”

“Very good,” Sho said, feeling pleased. “The year is the year she bought them, and then the second number is the order in which she acquired them that year. So here,” he said, lifting a bundle labeled with 2010 and group 5. Inside was a small tin full of miniature soccer cleats. “These are from 2010 when she was having a bit of Dutch mania. World Cup.”

“The Netherlands didn’t win…I thought…wasn’t it…Spain?”

Sho nodded, grinning. “She liked their orange uniforms better than Spain’s colors so…” He pulled another 2010, group 5 bundle out. He handed it to Jun, letting him unwrap it. Jun’s laugh was enough to make Sho’s heart pound. “She doesn’t know how soccer works at all, but she wanted a little Dutch soccer player.”

Jun lifted the doll from the paper, poking at its orange uniform with a smile. “She’s an amazing person.”

“She’d actually ordered them through Ninomiya first, but he didn’t know much about soccer, so she hadn’t ordered the right shoes for them and he hadn’t thought about it. So those custom cleats were all my doing, once I showed her some pictures.”

Jun held up the little soccer player, bopping him gently against Sho’s head. “Thanks very much for making me game ready, Sho-san!” he said in a high pitched doll-esque voice.

Sho snorted, if only to keep himself from letting out a noisy laugh. He’d never forgive himself if he woke her. 

Jun hit him lightly with the doll again. “Don’t laugh at me. I’m a very important international sports superstar,” he said once more in that silly voice, and before he realized what he was doing, Sho clapped his hand over Jun’s mouth.

“Stop,” he said weakly before snatching his hand back.

At Sho’s touch, though, he’d seen Jun’s eyes darken, his whole body tense. Way to go, Sakurai, Sho thought. The guy is now completely freaked out that you’re hitting on him. He’s clearly not into men, or at least not into men like you and…

Jun was already leaning forward, the doll dropping to his lap as he brought his hand to the back of Sho’s head, pulling him close. There was a split-second of hesitation, that sensation like the moment before the roller coaster goes down the hill, and then Jun was kissing him. Sho’s body for once reacted ahead of his brain, and he leaned into it, tilting his head a little to get to a better angle.

He was kissing Jun, and oh god, Jun was kissing him. And it was so much better than he could have even imagined, mostly because of how spontaneous it was. Sho had wanted him ever since he’d set foot in the man’s bakery that day, had let his eyes linger for a beat too long. Jun was everything Sho shouldn’t have wanted, someone who’d come in and shaken up Michiko’s life. 

But she was happy, happier than she’d been in years, and it was all thanks to Jun. 

Jun’s kiss was dizzying, unrelenting, and Sho couldn’t help but try to hold on, one hand squeezing Jun’s thigh hard if only to ground himself in the fact that this was really happening. That maybe Jun wanted him just as badly, despite everything.

They only stopped when they heard footsteps in the hallway, clearly Kato or Ninomiya heading to their rooms for the night. Sho used one of the storage tubs for support, pulling himself up and away from Jun before things got any more serious.

“I’m…I’m…”

Jun was toying with the soccer doll, raising its arm up and down in a nervous gesture. “Sho-san, I shouldn’t have…”

“No,” Sho said immediately, gingerly walking through the room and putting distance between them even though he very much didn’t want to. “No, don’t apologize at all.” He’d found something he liked even more than what Jun baked.

“We still shouldn’t,” Jun said, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry for adding more complication.”

Sho was already missing it, how easily he’d given in. How badly he’d wanted it. “Let’s just get through this week, okay?”

“Of course.”

“Right,” Sho mumbled. He turned the doorknob. “Well, don’t stay up too late. You really can just leave it. I’ll take care of it.”

“Okay,” Jun replied. Their eyes met for a few brief moments before Sho went into the hall and pulled the door closed behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Michiko-san had felt a little tired upon waking, but still insisted on working on the draft of her will. Shihori was watching her like an overprotective mama hen, whipping Kato-san and Ninomiya-san into shape. The four of them stayed cooped up in Michiko’s room for the better part of the day, getting things in motion.

As for Sho, he’d gone off for a drive with Aiba after breakfast, with Sho claiming that he was going to take some photos along the coast to give to Michiko. Jun, however, saw through this ploy immediately. It had been foolish, kissing Sho, and even though Jun had enjoyed it, more than he’d even imagined, things would be so awkward between them now.

Because Jun was still the person Michiko was suddenly adding into her will, and Sho was the person who’d worked so hard all these years to prevent such a thing from happening. To try and distract himself from all the ways he was screwing up, he took a walk into town. Tateyama was a tourist hotspot come summertime, with people swarming the beaches, but it was much calmer, more subdued in winter. 

He wandered through shops, visited bakeries to scope out what others were doing, looking for ideas he might bring back to Mr. Bake. He sat at a picnic table near the water, calling Ohno just to make sure the shop hadn’t burned down in his absence. Everything was just fine, Ohno assured him, and thankfully he didn’t bother to ask Jun anything about how things were going with Michiko (or with Sho). Sometimes Ohno just understood which topics were not to be breached.

But the winter sun set early as always, so he trudged back to the house. Michiko was already in bed for the evening, despite the early hour. Sho and Aiba had returned, and Aiba refused to let Jun make dinner. Instead he and Sho had picked up some fresh seafood on their day out, and Aiba was going to take care of everything.

The tension in the living room while they all waited for dinner was nervewracking. To break the ice, Kato and Ninomiya went over what had already been decided. It turned out that everyone in the house at that very moment - Sakurai, Matsumoto, Aiba, Kanjiya Shihori - was set to be a beneficiary. In addition, since Kato and Ninomiya were handling Michiko’s affairs, they too stood to receive money for their efforts in carrying out Michiko’s final wishes. Because of this overwhelming conflict of interest, the will as it currently stood was not final. Once they got back to Tokyo, Michiko-san would hopefully allow a few independent parties to sign off as witnesses. 

“But who?” Shihori was asking, curled up on the couch looking frustrated. “Anyone else she knows is getting money from her.”

That included her doctor that paid house calls, the doorman of her apartment building, and the caretakers of her other houses. Jun tried to float Ohno as a suggestion, but Kato shook his head. “He’s too closely associated with you,” the lawyer said. “Of course, it’s possible, but with such a big estate like Michiko-san’s, we really don’t want there to be anyone involved who could call the whole thing into question.”

The fact that Kato had looked directly at Jun when saying so made him want to sink into the floor.

Ninomiya was hopeful that some colleagues of his from a different accounting firm would participate, and their stamps and authority on a final will would make the entire thing unquestionably legitimate. The problem, of course, was convincing Michiko to allow them close while she signed and stamped the document.

Their dinner was quiet, and though Aiba had done a spectacular job, their appetites were not what they could be. After the meal Sho volunteered to take Kato and Ninomiya back to the train station, and Jun would have done anything to go with them, to get away before things got any more awkward.

Instead he went back upstairs, trying to distract himself with some pointless game on his phone. The minutes ticked by, and the house quieted back down. Sho would be back soon, and Jun would have to expend all his energy to stay away from him. His vision blurred, quickly losing interest in his game. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore how perfect it felt to touch him, to feel his mouth move against his own. But everything else that mattered wasn’t perfect. What kind of relationship could the two of them have anyhow?

He heard stomping on the staircase, and soon there was furious knocking on the door. “Who is it?”

Before he’d even finished, it was Aiba, shoving the door open. His face was white as a sheet. “It’s Michiko-san.”

Sho and Shihori went to the hospital with Michiko-san in his car, the old woman refusing an ambulance (and this after a great deal of protest about going to the hospital at all). Jun and Aiba followed behind in Aiba’s small car. Shihori had gone in to check on her shortly after dinner, and Michiko had been burning up. Any sort of fever, any ailment at all in a woman her age, could be a problem if not instantly treated.

Shihori was allowed to stay in the room, speaking with the doctors about Michiko’s condition, but the three of them were stuck in the waiting room. Sho was clearly upset with himself.

“She’s been slower the past few days. All of this was too much,” he was mumbling. Aiba was sitting beside him, saying nothing but rubbing his back to try and comfort him.

Jun felt like he didn’t belong, pacing the floor with his arms crossed tight. This was all his fault, all of it.

Shihori looked like death warmed over when she finally came to speak to them, the men getting to their feet to hear the news. “She didn’t want to, but they’re going to admit her. With the fever, it could be symptomatic of something more serious. I don’t have the equipment to monitor her properly on my own.” Shihori covered her mouth with her hand. “I should have been more careful. I shouldn’t have let them bother her all day.”

“It’s not your fault, Shii-chan,” Sho said, moving across the waiting room to wrap his arms around her. Her cries broke Jun’s heart. He and Aiba could only stand there while the two people closest to Shiroyanagi Michiko beat themselves up for something that in all likelihood could not have been prevented. They’d done everything possible to give her proper care, to mind her health and what she ate. For someone with such a phobia of strangers, of getting proper medical care, Michiko had people looking after her that did their best with what she allowed.

Sho wandered off in a daze, clutching his cell phone. He was going to call Kato, call Ninomiya. One of the most important factors in Michiko-san’s will was that she was of sound mind when she signed it. The copies Kato and Ninomiya had in their possession, witnessed by Aiba and Sho as a temporary measure, could be called into question if she was feverish now. Jun knew the woman was sharp as a tack, but it wouldn’t take much for someone to be suspicious.

Sho and Shihori both refused to go home, were planning to stay overnight to monitor the situation. Even Aiba’s gentle coaxing wasn’t enough to change their minds. He and Jun headed back for the car, to return to the massive beach house alone. Jun wasn’t liking the idea that he’d be shut up in that big house all alone for the night, and seeming to sense this, Aiba mumbled some excuse about wanting to see what it was like to sleep on the couch for once. Jun thanked him with a squeeze to his shoulder, and Aiba smiled back kindly.

They took the elevator down to the parking structure beneath the hospital, the both of them exhausted. While Aiba fumbled in his pocket for his car keys, Jun couldn’t help looking over when he heard footsteps in the next aisle of cars.

His heart seemed to stop when he saw the person who was just getting into his car, who apparently hadn’t noticed Jun. It was that scary looking guy, the bodyguard, assistant, whoever that worked for Shiroyanagi Masaharu. 

Jun took off running before he even realized it. “Hey!” he screamed as the guy turned his car on. “Hey, get back here!”

“What’s going on?” he heard Aiba calling behind him, his sneakers squeaking on the ground as he tried to keep up. “Jun!”

But Jun was seeing red, furious at the thought of Masaharu spying on him, spying on all of them. The car backed out, started heading for the exit. “Hey!” he shouted, waving his arms, so loud his voice was echoing off the walls. “Hey!”

He tried to give chase, but he wasn’t fast enough, the car pulling out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires. Jun doubled over, breathing heavily, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Masaharu would know now. He’d know that Michiko had been admitted to the hospital. Michiko, who still didn’t have a valid will.

Aiba finally caught up, putting a hand on Jun’s back. “What is it? What’s wrong? Who was that guy? Jun, answer me!”

But Jun could only stare at the exit, knowing it was just going to get worse.

—

Sho nearly dropped his phone.

“Elder abuse?!”

“They’re reaching,” Kato assured him. “We have everything she’s done for decades, and you know Ninomiya’s got the same on his end. But the timing is, of course, the absolute worst.”

Sho paced the floor of the Tateyama house, wanting to punch a hole in the wall. “Elder abuse, Shige, are they for real?”

Michiko was still in the local hospital a week later, and while her fever had gone away after a day, the doctors there, in consultation with Michiko’s personal doctor, thought it was best they keep her. Sho knew that Michiko hated it, being poked and prodded by strangers. Blood draws and tests and people in and out of her room at all hours. Kato had already had to force Shihori to leave, now that the lawsuit had been filed. Now Michiko had nobody, save for her own doctor, and even then it had to feel like a betrayal.

Sho kept up with his newspaper trawl every morning, having hoped they’d at least allow her that much. He emailed his findings to the nurse’s station, and they promised him that everything he sent along was being communicated to her. Sho, of course, had no way of verifying it or not. As soon as the suit from Shiroyanagi Masaharu, on behalf of the entire Shiroyanagi family, had been filed, Sho too had been forced to abandon his employer.

The lawsuit had initially been nothing more than an inquiry from “the family,” curious about where Michiko had been for all these years. She’d never been far, of course, but that hadn’t seemed to matter to them until now when she was in the hospital. The accusations of elder abuse were new, and Sho had never felt so sickened to his core.

They’d all been named liable. Shihori, for not getting Michiko proper medical treatment. Kato and Ninomiya, for negligence in administering Michiko’s money and property, for purchases that were deemed “outrageous” and “evidence of a troubled mind” like her commissioned dollhouses. And Sho came across as the ringleader of it all. Keeping a feeble-minded elderly woman locked in her apartment, never letting her out. Mental manipulation for ten years. All four of them, the suit accused, were after Michiko’s money and had insinuated themselves into her life so fully that she had no awareness of what was happening.

Each and every accusation a thorough lie. The Michiko Sho knew, that Sho cared for, had spent the better part of their time together telling Sho exactly what she wanted, pushing back every time Sho suggested other options. There was no manipulation whatsoever, and Kato told him that his firm was going to do everything in their power to take on the Shiroyanagi suit. But Kato himself had been taken off of Michiko’s account, and Ninomiya was under scrutiny at his own firm.

It had gone downhill so quickly that there was no question that the lawsuit had been a long time in coming. Shiroyanagi Masaharu had been planning this for a while, and even as Kato and Ninomiya had seemingly convinced themselves that he was involved, Sho knew in his heart that Jun hadn’t known.

“The suit was filed by the family,” Kato had kept saying. “He’s one of them.”

But Sho knew it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. He’d had plenty of time that week to realize it. He’d gone over every conversation they’d had, every interaction Jun had had with Michiko. It was impossible. But unfortunately, the filing of the lawsuit meant that Jun wouldn’t have the opportunity to prove his innocence to Sho. Lawyers from Kimura, Kato, Inagaki & Partners had advised Sho and Shihori both to completely cut off all contact with him, at least until the prosecutor’s office had conducted their own investigation and determined whether to pursue the suit from Shiroyanagi.

He was lost, so unsure of what to do. His parents urged him to come home, to get out of Tateyama. But as long as Michiko was stuck in the hospital here, he refused to leave. Shihori remained too, only eating when Aiba could get her to do so. She’d always been cheerful, no matter what. It ached to see her this way. The house felt so empty without Michiko in it, even though it had been without its owner for more than half a century.

And unfortunately, Kato had explained to Sho, there was no way they could move forward on the will. The will as it stood was witnessed by Aiba and himself, two people who stood to inherit millions. Michiko had decided all of the monetary awards when she was holed up with Kato and Ninomiya, and Sho had only found out he was due so much money when he’d been called in to stamp the document. The money was the furthest thing from his mind, but if Michiko didn’t approve of the will as it stood with unbiased witnesses, everything would go to the next of kin, her family, anyhow.

Shiroyanagi Masaharu had probably known this, and with his perfect timing on the lawsuit, he’d all but guaranteed that Michiko would not be signing a new will any time soon. They’d have to wait until the lawsuit was dismissed to approach her about it again. If his lawsuit went through, the will Kato and Ninomiya composed would be void. If his lawsuit was dismissed, any subsequent will Michiko signed would be scrutinized harshly, and Sho had a feeling the woman wouldn’t be able to deal with it. 

And there’d been the heartbreaking news from the morning before. When he’d called for a status update from the nurse, he’d been told that Michiko was in good spirits, was feeling as well as could be expected. But when she’d been asked what day it was, she’d been wrong. She’d been a day behind. It was being in the hospital, Sho figured. She was all out of sorts. But it was just another hurdle to overcome. She had to be judged of sound mind to authorize any wills moving forward.

He, Aiba, and Shihori sat quietly in the kitchen that evening. It was Aiba Masaki he currently owed his remaining sanity to. Defying the orders of the lawyers, Aiba had gone back and forth to the Tokyo apartment, hauling a few dozen of Michiko’s photo albums back with him. One of the doctors at the hospital was a friend of Aiba’s from high school and had assured him that Aiba could bring the albums to her, if only to give the old woman some small measure of happiness during her confinement.

Shihori sat between them, flipping through the pages, her fingers lingering on them. “I still really hate dolls,” she said with a chuckle, tears in her eyes.

“Why do you think I stay in the cottage?” Aiba teased gently. “If I stay in the house here, it feels like they’re watching me.”

“They’re not so bad,” Sho complained, turning the page for Shihori. The three of them came face to face with Michiko’s set of Chinese terra cotta warrior dolls, exact duplicates in miniature that lived at the house in Aichi. Their faces were always so angry, ready for battle. The three of them burst out laughing, unable to stop until their sides ached.

“Alright, alright,” Sho admitted. “Those ones are scary.”

Sho could only hope that their feelings, that their love for her, came through when Michiko had the photo albums in her arms again.

—

Jun’s grandmother was always thrilled when he showed up with treats. “It always smells so sterile here,” Matsumoto Atsuko complained, greedily snatching another cookie from the tin he and Ohno had put together for her and her friends in this wing of the care facility. “At least we can smell the sugar and sprinkles for a while.”

They’d already been up and down the floor twice, Jun pushing his grandmother in her chair while she proudly shook the tin. “My grandson’s back,” she’d call out, earning little cheers from the other residents. “Aoyama-san, won’t you come out and have some? There are sugar-free ones today!”

Jun accepted the compliments, inclining his head and offering smiles for the elderly men and women who made up his grandmother’s circle of friends. After his grandfather had passed a few years ago, Atsuko had hated living alone, and though Jun’s parents had wanted her to move in with them, she’d refused. One of her friends from the neighborhood had moved here to Tulip Garden, raving about the place. It was more active than Jun had imagined. They had classes for the residents, flower arranging and crafts, book clubs, all sorts of things to keep the mind sharp. 

“Your grandfather would have hated this place,” she’d whisper, grinning. “He was always a wet blanket.”

Valentine’s Day had already passed, but the halls were still dotted with paper hearts and Cupids. He pushed his grandmother back to her room, and she placed the tin of cookies near the door. “Then the nurses can have some too. I swear, you’re trying to fatten me up, Jun-kun.”

“What, you’re as stylish and thin as ever, Grandma.”

She turned, covering her ears. “No, no, none of that. Why can’t you be more like your sister? She comes here and she says ‘Granny, let me bring you some new slippers, those are looking ratty.’”

“Arisa should mind her manners,” Jun complained, sitting down heavily in the chair beside his grandmother’s bed. She settled in, turning on her small TV set, putting on a bawdy comedian’s variety show. Another thing Jun’s grandfather would have disapproved of.

They sat there in companionable silence for at least an hour, his grandmother only making brief little comments here and there about the commercials that played. “Oh, what I’d have given for a vacuum like that when your father was a messy little boy!” “You can make just about everything in a microwave now. Times are changing indeed, Jun-kun.”

Jun kept looking over, watching her with pain weighing heavily in his heart. The family resemblance was uncanny. Matsumoto Atsuko, born Shiroyanagi Atsuko, looked so much like her Aunt Michiko that it was scary. Of course, Jun had never known a thing about Michiko-san, so it was only now that he realized it. 

He hadn’t been given the opportunity to speak with his father or his sister about everything. Masaharu’s lawyers had done all the talking for him, showing up at Jun’s parents’ house while they were sitting down to a Sunday afternoon meal all together as a family. “That’s nothing to do with us,” Matsumoto Hiroki had protested, face turning red in anger as it usually did. “We have no interest in that old woman’s money, we don’t know her.”

But it had all come out, the future of Shiroyanagi Management, the part Jun was set to play. If the Matsumoto family added their names to the lawsuit, the horrific and completely unfounded elder abuse lawsuit, they too could inherit Michiko’s riches. “Won’t you think of your son and daughter? About your grandson?” the lawyer had said so slyly, and Jun thought his father was about to have a stroke.

It took his mother’s calm, gentle dismissal to get the Shiroyanagi lawyers to leave. But she hadn’t been able to calm her husband’s rage once they were gone. Arisa, as expected, had been incensed at first, clearly angry with Jun for not letting her in on the whole plan, but she changed her mind almost instantly, realizing the wealth that her little boy stood to gain. Even Keisuke, who had never been much of a material person, had questioned Jun, asking just what it could mean for Yosuke. But the conversation died right there, and his father had erupted.

“You want to be a part of that family so badly, then go join them!” he’d shouted, raising his voice at Jun in a way he hadn’t since Jun was a typical whiny teenager. “You’re an adult, Jun, so you pick your side. And that goes for you too, Arisa. You want to go crawling on your belly to a person like that for that poor old woman’s money, then go.”

“Hiroki,” his mother had tried. “Hiroki, let Jun explain…”

“Let him make his choice. He’s the one who has to live with it.”

With the way his grandmother was behaving that afternoon, Jun wondered if his parents had spoken to her about everything yet. He didn’t want to bring it up, to remind her of the painful memories of her youth. Instead he just watched more TV with her, chatted with her about the store. She asked after Ohno, who always went the extra mile in decorating cookies for her. He was the artist, and Jun knew it. He’d stopped competing on that front.

“What about your big plan?” his grandmother asked. “The one you were telling me about before Christmas?”

Jun’s mouth went dry. His silly ambition, his desire to expand the business. That was up in the air, depending on what happened with Masaharu-san. Since Tateyama, Jun had refused every request the man had made. There was no way he could look the man in the eye ever again, not after he’d played Jun like a violin. Sending Jun to Michiko had just been one idea, the lawsuit another one he’d kept in his pocket. No matter what, he was determined to get Michiko’s money.

Though Jun was one great ball of anxiety about Mr. Bake’s future, Ohno was far more understanding than he ought to be. “She’s a tough old lady,” Ohno had said, patting Jun’s shoulder. “She might still get to sign that will.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Jun-kun,” Ohno had said, rolling his eyes. “We’re too good at making bread to ever shut down for good. If we sell it from this shop or from a stand on the side of the road, we’ll figure it out. Stop worrying.” 

Jun was quiet for a while, not wanting to worry his grandmother. “The shop’s doing well. We do decent business.”

“That’s good, I know how happy it makes you.” Her smile then was so genuine, so encouraging, that he had to look away. Just like Michiko, his grandmother had complete faith in him. But how easily Jun had let himself be dragged in to Masaharu’s mess. Because of Jun, he’d ruined everything. And if Masaharu’s foolish lawsuit went anywhere, it would have dire consequences for Ninomiya-san, Kato-san, Shihori-san…

Sho would never be able to recover with such a stain on his character, nothing but lies. And it would be Shiroyanagi money, Shiroyanagi lawyers, that ruined him. All thanks to Jun.

He wondered what Sho even thought of him now. Surely he had to be thinking that Jun was involved. The lawsuit had been issued mere hours after Masaharu-san’s assistant had left the hospital. It had only been weeks ago that they’d all been in the house, playing with those silly dolls. With Michiko assuring him it would all work out.

As the days slipped by, Jun was becoming doubtful that was true.

—

It was the middle of March when the prosecutor’s office wrapped up their assessment. After speaking with Michiko, with her doctors, and with all the parties involved, Shiroyanagi Masaharu’s lawsuit had been dropped. By going through years of well-maintained financial records, from interviewing the people Michiko had commissioned work from, there was little doubt that the old woman had made all her own choices when it came to spending her money. There was no evidence of wrongdoing on Sho’s part, on Shihori’s, on any of the people who represented her interests.

But even with the lawsuit dropped, clearing the way for Michiko to settle on her will, the harshness of her new life in the hospital had taken its toll on a woman who’d spent so many years living life on her own specific terms. The lawsuit’s dismissal meant that she could have visitors, that Sho and Shihori could be part of her life again, but after speaking with her doctors, there was very little that could be done.

Shihori, medically trained and capable, returned to the Tateyama house from Michiko-san’s hospital room that first day with tears in her eyes. “It’s a broken heart. They’ve broken her heart,” she’d cried, clinging to Sho and hoping for answers that he didn’t have.

Sho was able to see his employer for the first time in nearly seven weeks on the second day after the lawsuit was dropped. Michiko had always been small, popping out from underneath her comforting mound of blankets, but it was clear to Sho within just the first few moments that all the spark, all the life that had been overflowing from the elderly woman had been snuffed out. If there was any elder abuse to complain about, it was keeping her trapped in this hospital, separating her from the only people she trusted. The only “family” that meant anything to her.

Sho sat at her bedside with his laptop, reading her the news headlines. She simply nodded, taking in what he was telling her. “You’re much better than that box, Sho-chan,” she said, gesturing to the TV, her voice more subdued than he’d ever heard it. “You’ve always been so much better.”

“Is there anything I can do for you today, Michiko-san?” he asked. He didn’t dare show any of his own sorrow, keeping a smile on his face, desperate to make her happy.

She had grown frail the last several weeks. He couldn’t even imagine how traumatizing it had been for her, being cut off from them. It seemed to take a lot of effort for her to speak. “Let’s look at the pictures.”

He stayed with her as long as the nurses allowed him that day, flipping through the photo albums that Aiba had fortunately brought for her. Aside from them, there was not one thing in the hospital room with a personal touch, nothing inviting or remotely friendly. When it was time to go, he set the album back. They’d been looking at dolls from the Tateyama house, and Michiko had looked at them with none of her usual cheer. Before she’d been so content with her pictures. Now it was clear she wanted so much more, and it was too late.

He buttoned up his coat, ready to head out for the night. Tomorrow he, Shihori, and Aiba had plans to come together, pending the staff’s approval. They’d rotate in and out of the room if they had to. She needed to be coaxed back to some measure of safety, of happiness.

“Sho-chan,” her weak voice called out when he was just at the door.

He turned. “Yes, have I forgotten something?”

“Do you think Jun-chan might make me some croissants? I’ve missed them so.”

He simply nodded. “I’ll bring them for you. Get a good night’s sleep so you can eat a dozen in the morning.”

“A dozen?” Michiko scoffed, the faintest spark returning to her eyes. “Shihori-chan will never let you give me a dozen.”

“What Shihori doesn’t know won’t hurt her!”

Michiko pointed at him weakly. “Naughty, naughty boy!”

When he got to the parking structure under the building, his cell phone told him it was already after 7:00. The Mr. Bake shop in Ikebukuro was closed. But he didn’t care, getting in the car and heading for the highway.

He called Aiba, told him he would be spending the night in Tokyo, that he’d be back in the morning. Aiba hadn’t asked any questions. Sho hesitated with his phone the entire ride, not even making the call until he was already parked on a side street near the shop.

Jun’s voice, a sound he hadn’t heard in over a month, was hesitant when he answered. It was almost 10:00. “Sho-san?”

Sho wanted to say a million things. He wanted to tell Jun that he knew he’d had nothing to do with the lawsuit, that he wasn’t angry. That he was desperate to see him again, that he’d missed him. He said none of those things. “I’m actually sitting outside your shop. In my car.”

“You’re in Tokyo?”

“Yeah.”

Jun exhaled. “Why?”

“Michiko-san wants some croissants tomorrow. Baked fresh. I was hoping you could do it.”

“Give me forty-five minutes, I’ll be there.”

Sho waited, nervous as hell, checking the time on his phone nearly every minute. When there was a knock on his car window almost an hour later, he jolted in his seat, honking the horn by accident. It was Jun, waving with a nervous grin on his face. He unlocked the door, and Jun got in.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, flashing that smile that had won him over so completely. “I had to get things from the shop.” 

He had a massive shopping bag with him, and Sho was confused. “I thought…wait, what’s going on?”

Jun rummaged through the bag. “These take hours to make, you know. We work on big batches of dough beforehand so they just need to be baked in the morning. It takes forever to get the butter layer right. I spend half my afternoons working on croissant dough sometimes.”

“I thought you just rolled them up?”

“Sho-san, if all you had to do was ‘roll them up’ then I’d be out of a job.”

He found himself smiling despite himself. It was almost too easy, how they’d slipped back into casual conversation. “Please pardon my usual ignorance.”

Jun lifted a cold pack from the shopping bag. “Now if you don’t mind, this stuff has to stay cool. You’d better get going.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“If she wants them fresh, I’m going to bake them in Tateyama. Then you can run them right over to her.”

He knew it. He just knew that Jun had been loyal, had stayed true to Michiko. He’d been an unfortunate pawn in Shiroyanagi-san’s schemes. He could have kissed him, right there in the car. But then, where would that leave his precious dough? 

It took almost another three hours to get back to Tateyama, and it was just after 2:00 in the morning when they pulled into the drive. It had been a long, dark ride, and they’d kept the radio on, the two of them quietly singing along with some old classics. It seemed like neither of them was ready to talk about what they’d been up to the past several weeks. Sho had a feeling that Jun’s experience had been just as rough as his own. For right now, it was enough that Jun was here, willing to help.

“What time do visiting hours start?” Jun whispered as they walked up the stairs.

“10:00 AM.”

“Wake me at 6:30.”

As soon as they were in the door, Jun put his things in the refrigerator, barely getting out of his coat before collapsing onto the couch in his jeans and t-shirt. Sho grinned, picking up his coat and hanging it by the door. He tiptoed quietly through the living room, putting a blanket on him. Michiko was going to be so happy to see him again.

Sho came downstairs again at 6:30, but Jun was already in the kitchen, probably running on fumes after sleeping a handful of hours on the couch. He had his dough spread out on the counter, using a pizza cutter to slice it up evenly. Sho sat in a chair at the table, saying nothing as he watched. Jun was methodical, exacting in his work. Once he’d sliced up the dough, he did the part that Sho knew something about, rolling them up into the proper shape. He then cracked an egg into a bowl with just a splash of water, using some sort of brush to coat them. 

He then set them aside, looking up. “Morning.”

“You rolled them up.”

“I did,” Jun admitted.

“So I wasn’t wrong.”

Jun rolled his eyes. “These need to sit for about ninety minutes. Guess that gives me time to make you breakfast, huh?”

Sho blushed. “Well, if you’re offering.”

Shihori came downstairs as soon as Jun had a pot of coffee going, mumbling some morning greetings. They were soon joined by Aiba, who was in pajama bottoms and had clearly come from upstairs as well. Jun offered no commentary, rummaging through the fridge to see what he could throw together. Soon enough they were all gobbling up tamagoyaki and rice.

While Sho volunteered to clean up (since he never had anything to contribute cooking-wise), Jun got everything ready to bake. Soon the kitchen smelled incredible, and he pulled them from the oven to cool. The whole house had a sinfully buttery scent. Michiko-san had conditioned them all to have a firm appreciation for croissants, and Sho had to struggle to keep his fingers to himself, desperate to yank one off the rack where they were cooling.

Shihori rummaged through the cabinets, pulling out a food storage bin. “We’ll toss them in here. Sho-kun, go upstairs, get one of the doll ribbons, we’ll make it a little pretty for her.”

While Shihori and Jun got the big delivery ready to go, he headed upstairs. The perfect ribbon, the perfect ribbon. He was digging through one of the tubs in the spare room when he heard his phone go off. “Ah, not now,” he grumbled, up to his elbows in tissue paper. He answered the call.

“Hello, this is Sakurai.”

—

It had been peaceful. Painless, the doctor assured them. Simply her time, one of the nurses had said.

But it wasn’t, Jun knew. If he’d never interfered, Michiko might have never left the comforts of her Tokyo apartment. She might still be alive, thriving to the extent any spunky old lady might. But they’d never know.

He didn’t know what to do to help, and he had barely slept. When Sho’s call had come the night before, he’d dropped everything. Hell, he’d taken half the croissant dough from the shop and had left Ohno some half-assed note in explanation. He’d left Mr. Bake with little notice, and he could only hope Ohno would understand why.

But standing in the hospital, knowing they’d been too late, he felt rotten inside. Almost angry with Michiko. Why couldn’t you have waited a little longer, he thought. Why couldn’t we have been here with you at the very end?

She’d passed away in her sleep, and before Sho even allowed himself to take a breath, to react, to even mourn, he had his phone back out. He was calling the law firm. He was calling Ninomiya. And Jun knew, Jun just knew, that Masaharu had won. There was a little more than a week left in his precious fiscal year. And here was his windfall.

The week that followed was a blur.

To add insult to injury, the Shiroyanagi family - Masaharu, his wife, distant cousins - they all got involved. By default, the execution of Michiko’s estate fell to them, and they decided that organizing Michiko’s wake and funeral was their responsibility too. Though weeks earlier they’d falsely accused Sakurai Sho and Kanjiya Shihori of wishing Michiko harm, they were tactless enough to invite them to the wake. It was scheduled to be held in the same parlor where only months earlier, Jun had made the mistake of showing sympathy for a cousin he didn’t even know.

Now the Shiroyanagi family was paying Michiko the same courtesy, a woman they’d never bothered to meet, to know, to love. They threw her a grand wake and funeral that was the complete opposite of the wishes she’d expressed in the will that meant nothing. The people who were coming to mourn hadn’t met her. To Jun’s surprise, Arisa didn’t go. She’d said nothing, offered no complaints when the Shiroyanagi lawyers came back around, when Matsumoto Hiroki told them to get off his property and leave them alone.

After speaking with Aiba shortly after the funeral, the caretaker told Jun that Sho had organized something quiet, something private at the Tateyama house. Would Jun be kind enough to come?

He and Ohno took the bus, bringing cupcakes frosted in some of Michiko’s favorite colors. Croissants, Jun had decided, would just be too heartbreaking. The house had been transformed, and from the dark bags under Sho’s eyes, Jun knew instantly that he’d been the one to get everything organized. All the furniture was moved, covered in drop cloths. There were photos everywhere, enlarged and printed out, tacked up on every inch of wall space.

Sure, there were a few of her dolls, but most of them were not. There were pictures of all the property she owned - the mountains in Nagano, the sea in Chiba. There were pictures of Michiko herself over the years, taken by the various assistants she’d employed. There were pictures of the people who’d worked for her. A photograph of Aiba Masaki offering a peace sign, a demolished bathroom behind him. A photograph of Kanjiya Shihori in bright yellow sunglasses, waving at the camera during some well-earned vacation time in Hawaii. Jun went from room to room, finding only one picture of Sho in the entire house. Maybe after all those years there’d only been the one.

It was the photograph of him and Michiko together, sitting on the couch here in the Tateyama house. It was the picture Jun had taken - Michiko holding her beloved doll, Sho watching her with such love that it made Jun choke up, hurrying from the room before he made a scene.

The group gathered for Michiko’s real wake was small, no more than 30 or 40 people. Her inner circle, people from Kato’s law firm, from Ninomiya’s office. A handful of craftsmen and artisans from all over Japan who had been hired by Michiko over the years. But at the very least they’d all known her, had spoken to her, exchanged letters with her. Been frustrated by her.

On May 1st, Aiba explained to Jun, all of the property of Shiroyanagi Michiko was going on the market. Her houses in Aichi, Nagano, and Chiba. Her apartments in Tokyo. Her furniture. Her dolls and her dollhouses. Her artwork and her jewelry, anything of value. According to Kato, it was Masaharu’s wife who was taking charge of all the auctions. The proceeds from all of her precious dolls and jewels were going to the charities Michiko had supported throughout her long life. A small concession, Jun knew, considering that Shiroyanagi Management was taking all the money Michiko had in the bank, in the stock market, in the sale of all her property.

Her caretakers - Aiba in Chiba, a woman from the Nagano property, a middle-aged man from the Aichi property - were now out of work. As of yet, Aiba didn’t have any plans, but he didn’t seem too worried about it. “I’ve got a ton in savings thanks to Michiko-san,” he admitted. “She’s taking care of _me_ now.”

Shihori was the dutiful hostess, explaining the contents of several of the pictures, smiling sadly as she moved through the room. Ohno had struck up an odd conversation with the lawyer, Kato. Apparently they shared a fondness for fishing. At least Jun didn’t have to worry about his partner being unable to mingle with these people. He had only seen Sho briefly, when they’d come in, and they hadn’t spoken yet. In fact, Jun hadn’t seen Sho for quite some time now.

Ninomiya managed to corner Jun near a collage of photographs of the Nagano mountains. “Maybe he’ll become a photojournalist,” Ninomiya said, smirking. “He’s always reading the papers, you know. He’s like an encyclopedia with all that useless knowledge.”

“Do you think he’ll be okay?”

Ninomiya nodded. “I think so. It’ll be longer for him than for most, simply because of how close they were. Finding a job though, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

“Why do you say that?”

The accountant grabbed another of Ohno’s cupcakes from the table, picking at the wrapper. “Kato had a letter for him. All he has to do is include it in a job application, and I’m sure he’s all set.”

“What kind of letter was it?”

Ninomiya, who’d been all numbers since Jun had met him, actually looked sad for a moment, his chin quivering the slightest bit before he recovered himself. “She wrote recommendation letters for him and Kanjiya-san. Kato’s had them on file for months, she did it without telling them. She never could be bothered about that will, but she wanted to make sure the two of them found a job after she was gone. They’re really nice.”

Jun stepped back, letting Ninomiya enjoy his sugar. He headed upstairs, past the lawyers and the dollhouse makers, finding Sho in the bedroom he’d used at the end of the hall. Aiba had shifted most of the furniture around, covered it with cloth. Sho didn’t seem to mind, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. He was in his suit and tie, not seeming to care if it got wrinkled while he sat.

Jun decided he didn’t care either, shutting the door and moving over to him, having a seat next to him. He looked so tired, like he might fall over at any moment. His eyes were bloodshot, his round face streaked with tear tracks. There was paper at his feet, a few sheets stapled together, printed out. The letter from Michiko-san.

“I never hated you. I never blamed you,” Sho said quietly, staring straight ahead. “I’m sure you’ve been beating yourself up about this.”

“Sho-san…”

He let out the saddest little sigh. “Don’t. Don’t blame yourself for what happened. If it hadn’t been you, I’m sure that man would have tried something else. She was happy, so happy, that week we were here. It truly is thanks to you, Jun. You changed her life for the better.”

He could feel his eyes burning. “I’m so incredibly sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Sho scooted a little closer, his head dropping lazily to rest on Jun’s shoulder. “The auction house actually called me the other day. They wanted me to help in getting things organized, her dolls, so they could be sold. Can you believe that?”

“Well, you did do an incredible job,” Jun replied. Sho was a warm, calming presence at his side. If Jun had never gone to Daisuke’s wake, setting this whole mess in motion, they might not have met. He wondered if it was selfish of him to be happy they’d found each other.

“I really did,” Sho admitted, and when he chuckled, Jun could feel it all the way to his bones.

They were quiet for a while, letting the chatter from downstairs punctuate their silence. 

Eventually Jun poked at the little bundle of paper with his foot. “Can I read it?”

“Sure, if you want.”

Sho moved, sitting up properly. He looked away while Jun read through it, biting his lip. The final page nearly broke him fully, and Jun suspected that was the reason why Sho was up here in this room, mourning alone.

_…and let it be said, future employer, that Sakurai Sho-san is not just a person of incredible work ethic, a person of skill and thoughtfulness who will work harder for you than anyone else on your payroll. No, there’s more to him than the person who earns a salary like all the others._

_He is warm. He is gentle. He is articulate. He is focused. He is dedicated. He is kind. He is steadfast. He is uncompromising. He is a perfectionist. He is generous._

_He’d go to the moon and back if it meant helping out someone who needed him. And I can tell you from personal experience that I needed a man like Sakurai Sho. I keep mostly to myself, you see, and I hope you’ll forgive the ramblings of an old woman, but from the day I met him, I just knew that he would do whatever it took to make me happy. He was a young little punk, a boy with his ear pierced and some foolish hairstyle. Despite those trappings, he had an impressive academic pedigree, but he never once spoke down to me. He never once presumed that because he was young and I was old, that because he was a man and I was just an old lady, that he knew better._

_I had previous assistants who tried to change my way of living. “Michiko-san,” they’d say. “Why don’t you go live with family, it’s their obligation to care for you.” “Michiko-san, stop throwing your money away on such silly things.” Sakurai-san instead showed his flexibility in adapting to me instead. I never made it easy for him. I sent him all over the country. I made him go back and forth on the work projects I commissioned. I made him work unreasonable hours, I stole him away from family vacations and holidays. I teased him and I expected him to give me everything I wished, even when it was near impossible, and I tell you without hesitation that Sakurai-san delivered on every promise to me._

_I’ve always been the type to be happy with things as they are, preferring to experience the world from the comfort of home. It’s earned me names like eccentric, like crazy, like mentally incapacitated. Sakurai-san offered no judgment on my way of living._

_He respected me._

_He was my dearest friend._

_While I shut myself away, he was my eyes. He was me, the person I couldn’t be, running my errands, negotiating my whims, being my voice in a world that to this day still has me wary. All of it, he did all of it, without much complaining, though I certainly gave him cause. I cherish every minute in his company and consider myself one of the luckiest people to have known him._

_What I need you to understand, future employer, is that hiring Sakurai Sho can only benefit you. He’ll work so hard that he’ll bring up any of the slack-offs or layabouts beside him. He’ll treat your customers, your clients, with the respect they deserve. He’ll be your company’s eyes, your company’s voice, elevating everything you do. Am I exaggerating? I certainly don’t believe I am, but have a look yourself. Have a chat with Sakurai Sho, and may you have the utmost fortune of discovering what I’ve known to be true for ten wonderful years. Please keep him in your favor._

_Shiroyanagi Michiko  
2014 September 19_

“She certainly had a high opinion of you. What a letter,” he said when he finished. But when he set the letter down, he could just see Sho shaking from the corner of his eye. He looked over, saw fresh tears sliding down Sho’s face. “Oh Sho-san…”

All Jun could do was open his arms, and he let Sho cry until he had no more tears to spill.

—

ONE YEAR LATER

—

If there was one thing he’d missed while he’d been traveling, it was the scent of Jun’s cakes. And Ohno-san’s too, of course.

Sure, he’d passed bakeries in almost every city, trying his share of sweets. But nothing really seemed to compare. He was happy to be home, back in Tokyo. His initial plan had been for a month. But then he’d expanded his itinerary, had been unable to say no to his own ideas when he clearly had the money and time to burn. Here he was, five months later, “Mr. Global Traveler.” Or at least that was what Shihori had changed his name to in the LINE app whenever she sent him a message.

Seventeen countries, a whirlwind trip he’d always dreamed of but had never been able to undertake. He’d started working for Michiko right out of college, and that had been the end of those sorts of ambitions. Not that he’d ever resented her for it. 

The auction company had paid him quite handsomely for his assistance in organizing her dolls in the weeks after she passed away. In fact, they’d been so impressed that they’d come right out and offered him a job. He’d informed them of his future travel plans, and they’d been kind enough to hold the offer until he returned. Today was his first day of work, only the second job he’d ever had in his entire life. He would have a supervisor, multiple supervisors in fact. He’d wear a suit and tie now. Very different from the Sakurai Sho who’d answered that strange ad over a decade ago.

The company was headquartered not far from Shibuya Station, and no matter how long he’d been away from Tokyo, it was impossible to forget the proper timing - taking the train up to Ikebukuro and back. He had plenty of time as he opened the door to Mr. Bake, smiling at the sight of Ohno-san standing behind the counter. He hadn’t changed at all, with his sleepy eyes and welcoming smile. He gestured to the swinging door.

“He’s got it ready for you, go on in. He knows you’re on a tight schedule.”

Sho nodded in acknowledgment, heading on through. He found Matsumoto Jun there, putting the finishing touches on a “Michiko Special” box, the newest promotion Mr. Bake had going. It was a combo box in a cheerful orange, filled with two croissants in one compartment and a slice of banana cream cake in the other. Though Sho had sent at least a dozen messages doubting that anyone would buy such a combo, Jun had replied that it was a hit. Breakfast and a treat for later, it seemed to work for some people.

He was happy that Mr. Bake was still here. After Jun had told him everything he’d gone through, all the nasty threats from Shiroyanagi Masaharu, Sho was surprised the man hadn’t swooped in with his money and forced Ohno and Jun out. In fact, the opposite had happened. Once he had his money, the money he’d done absolutely nothing to earn, Shiroyanagi-san left Jun alone. Though rents were still on the upswing in the neighborhood, it was doubtful Mr. Bake was going anywhere.

Which didn’t bode so well for Sho’s diet. Traveling the world, he’d been on the go so much that he’d dropped several kilos. He anticipated that a lot of that would come back now that he was back in the land of the Michiko Special combo box. All that butter and whipped cream, it was dangerous.

He stood opposite Jun by his work table, seeing the other trays of sweets prepared to go out into the store once their first morning batches sold. They were still a fairly small enterprise, but their customers were loyal. Jun in his close-fitting apron was definitely a highlight of Sho’s morning, worth the extra travel time. 

After everything, they’d been a little unsure of what to do. With Sho’s planned travel and Jun’s worries over his business, those first few months had been confusing. Were they together? Should they be? How would it work? Instead they’d tabled the discussion, and Sho had gone on his trip. He’d been back in Japan for almost a month now, readjusting to life again. And part of that readjustment had included Matsumoto Jun.

Sho really was enjoying this adjustment, watching Jun slide the combo box across the table. “I’m not doing this for you every day,” Jun said, as ridiculously honest as he’d always been.

He smiled across at him. “I’m not asking you to.” He peered into the box, rolling his eyes when he saw how large the slice of cake was. “This seems abnormal.”

“I have no idea what you mean, Sho-san.”

Sho closed the box again, checking his watch. “I’ve got about 10 minutes before I have to head for the station.”

“Oh,” Jun said, leaning against his table. “Is that all?”

He grinned. “Don’t we have a dinner date later?”

Jun laughed. “You may be right. I do remember someone whining and whining that I had to try this Italian place in Ebisu. Was that you?”

“You have a lot of admirers, Matsumoto-san?”

“Only one that’s worth an extra big slice of cake.”

Sho moved first, seeing Jun take a quick glance at the swinging door in embarrassment. But Sho doubted Ohno-san was going to pop his head in any time soon. When he reached for Jun, Jun stepped back.

“Idiot,” Jun said, “wait a second.”

Sho realized that he’d been about to wrap his arms around someone adorned with powdered sugar, and he waited impatiently for Jun to tug his apron off, to make sure he didn’t have anything on his hands that might get on Sho’s brand new suit. Sho discovered that Jun had been sampling his own merchandise, could smell banana cream on him when they kissed.

Today was the start of something new, and he tucked the Michiko Special box in the bag Ohno held out for him once he came back through the kitchen door. It was a little scary, a little exciting, and he knew that somewhere out there, Shiroyanagi Michiko was looking after him kindly, perhaps a little annoyed that she hadn’t gotten her croissants yet. 

Sho had a spring in his step when he left the shop, heading for Ikebukuro Station, for his new job, and for a new chapter of his life that could only get better and better.


End file.
